Focus
by Sevlow
Summary: Mustang, Edward, and all the other Alchemists of fair Amestris are starting to lose their grip on their own minds and bodies. The Amestrian military is in chaos as dozens of its higher-ranking officers start losing their minds to an unknown sickness,
1. The Writing on the Wall

_**~A/N**: This fic was written for the FMA Big Bang 2011 challenge. There are also some lovely illustrations for it as well, but I don't quite have access to them yet. I shall provide links when they are up, though! This fic is complete, but so as not to flood your inboxes, I'll only be posting 1 or 2 chapters a week. And yes, this is the main reason Primal Instincts hasn't been updated, so I'll try to get on that once this is done. __Enjoy._

* * *

><p>A low, exasperated growl rumbled in the back of Roy's throat and he crossed out his mistake—his <em>third<em> mistake—on the form he was filling out. Across the room, Hawkeye sighed and said something.

He frowned down at the papers before him, not really hearing her. These damn forms were taking him _forever_ to fill out for some reason. It felt like he had to read everything at least three times before it actually processed in his brain. Perhaps it was because it was late in the day on a Friday. He just didn't want to be here, and his mind was looking for any and every opportunity to distract itself. As it was, he was already going to be here late tonight finishing paperwork, and he was getting increasingly frustrated with his persisting lack of focus. Everyone had already gone home for the weekend except for himself and Hawkeye. She was almost finished with her share of the work, but Roy was barely half done. He was never going to get out of here...

"Sir."

He looked up at his lieutenant. "_What_, Lieutenant?"

"I asked if you needed another copy of the N-22. You have so many things crossed out on it that it's beginning to look like a grocery list."

"It's fine," he snapped. "It's still legible, so I don't really give a damn."

"Yes, sir."

Irritated, he put his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in one hand, glaring down at the incomprehensible words typed on the pages before him. He tapped his pen on the blank line beside his crossed-out error, where he was supposed to be describing the current financial needs of his department for the upcoming fiscal quarter and the reasoning for each need. He hated this shit. If he had known at the beginning that there was so much auditing and bureaucracy in the life of a military official, he probably would have never made it past the academy.

He rubbed his brow and closed one eye against the tense pain in his skull as he made himself start writing again. He just wanted to go home and slip into a nice glass of something pleasantly inebreating. Perhaps he'd nip into that twelve-year-old whiskey that Hughes had gotten him for his birthday last year. He'd been saving it for a special occasion, but if this horrendous, soul-crushing week didn't qualify for an alcoholic indulgence, then what did? Although, he did have that open bottle of port that he should probably finish first... but he didn't particularly like it. He supposed he could cook with it, though. It would probably go nicely in a poultry sauce, or even a stew. Not that he really had the time to cook lately, but if he did have the energy when he got home perhaps he could whip something up. Oh, who was he kidding? He was probably going to pick up some take-out on the way home like he usually did and plop himself on his couch for the rest of the evening, listening to the radio until he was too tired to keep his eyes open. At least he could sleep in tomorrow... as long as Hughes didn't call him at the crack of dawn, which he sometimes did no matter how many times Roy asked him not to. Maybe he should just unplug his phone until tomorrow to make sure that he got a good night's rest. And... oh, crap. Had he paid his phone bill? He had left the check on the table by the door to remind himself to put it in the box before leaving for work this morning, but couldn't remember if he'd mailed it out... Maybe he...

Roy blinked and looked down at the document he was working on again, tearing his mind from its aimless musings.

"...Son of a _bitch_!"

Hawkeye looked over at him. "Sir?"

"I just..." he started, but then stumbled in frustration and clenched his jaw. In the space where he should have been writing in his fiscal needs, his wandering mind had somehow coerced his hand into scratching barely-legible nonsense onto the pages before him. He couldn't even read it himself, it was so convoluted. And so slowly, with rage building, he crumpled the form in his fist and dropped it into the waste-paper bin beside his desk.

"Lieutenant," he said quietly, from between gritted teeth. "I think I'm going to need that spare copy of the N-22 form after all."

She walked over and laid it on his desk without saying anything. He snatched it up and started filling out his name, rank, title, and office location at the top of the form all over again.

"...Colonel, are you alright?" Hawkeye dared to ask after a moment. "You've been very distracted. Even more than usual."

The back of Roy's neck tensed and he briefly considered responding with several biting answers, but then he just rubbed his tired eyes and groaned miserably.

"Yes... I'm fine. I just can't concentrate today. I don't know what's with me. I'm just feeling a little odd."

"Perhaps you're getting ill," she suggested, ever patient. "There _is_ a bug going around... Which reminds me: Ed called earlier."

"Mmph. What'd he want?"

"He didn't know. He said that by the time I'd answered the phone he'd forgotten why he was calling, though he did mention that he and Alphonse are spending a few days in Central before heading north. I told him to call back when he remembered what he wanted, but he never did. He sounded just as distracted as you. You could both be coming down with something."

Roy sighed unhappily and set pen to paper again. "Ugh, great. That's just what I need." He wrote a few lines, then stopped and raised his head again. "If you're done with your paperwork, you can go ahead home, Hawkeye. It's late and I'm probably going to be here for a while yet."

"I don't mind staying to help with a few more files, sir. I don't have any plans tonight."

While Roy appreciated the offer, he shook his sore head. "I might concentrate better without anyone else in the room to further distract me, whether or not you're meaning to. Besides, I'm plenty aggravated and I'm getting to that point where I'm going to have to take out my frustrations on someone, and I think we'd both prefer that someone not be you."

Hawkeye smirked at her superior. She had taken the brunt of his tantrums more than once in their long career together and she knew to avoid being in the path of them when she could. "Alright, sir. Good night."

"Mm-hm."

Within a couple of minutes, Hawkeye had straightened her desk, gathered her things, and was out the door. Roy watched her back disappear into the hallway around the edge of his office door and grimaced enviously. He gathered his courage and, once more, lowered his eyes to the damnedable N-22 form.

_Oh_, it was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>Linda Bogart chewed the end of her pencil, which had already been worn down to a soggy nub of wood and lead. Graphite was smudged on her lower lip, but she had failed to notice. She was too busy watching the needle of the seismograph tick up and down, up and down, in a very slight, but hypnotic rhythm, like the pulsing lines on a heart monitor.<p>

"See, professor?" the intern told the older gentleman hovering over her, his wise eyes also fixed upon the needle. "It's doing it again. Is it an earthquake?"

The professor, a geologist at Central University who focused his studies primarily on various seismic events, took off his spectacles and frowned. It took him a very long time to answer and Linda fidgeted in the silence.

"It's too steady for an earthquake," he said finally. "And besides, the Central-Eastern fault line has been pretty dormant for the past century or so. The sensors _are_ getting old..." He rubbed his brow, looking disappointed. "They must be malfunctioning. I'll be sure to put in a request for replacements; it's long overdue anyway. The grad students might enjoy switching them out."

"...So we just ignore the readings? Even the increased pressure?"

The professor paused again before answering, his silence underlined by the intense thoughtfulness furrowing his brow. "...No. Keep an eye on it for now. Even if it does turn out to just be a fluke, it's... interesting."

"Yes, professor."

And then they both looked back at the needle, watching it sway.

* * *

><p>Maes Hughes stood on tiptoe, his hands interlocked behind him, face raised to the ceiling, and arched his back until it gave up a series of satisfying cracks that ran down his spine. He sighed at the gentle rush of post back-cracking endorphins and dropped his arms back to his sides with a tired grunt. He stifled a yawn and let his gaze wander over to the half-filled coffee cup on his desk. He looked at it with groggy consideration, then looked over at the stack of files on his desk before glancing back at the cup. He picked it up and headed back toward the department lounge, where he had just come from only a few minutes ago with a full cup of coffee, yet he'd already downed over half of it.<p>

Yep. He was definitely going to need a refill before starting work today. He could already tell: it was just going to be one of _those_ Monday mornings.

He was early anyway; even Sheska, ever the early bird, wasn't even in yet. He might as well take it slow and enjoy another cup of java before tackling the cases that had been stacked on his desk before the weekend, right? There was no rush.

He yawned widely and set his blue ceramic mug down on the counter as he made his way into the lounge. It was so quiet around the office this early. Peaceful, almost... at least, it would be until everyone started coming in. Then it would be a sea of grumpy officers and hungover soldiers, every single one of them sorely unhappy to be back at work after a weekend of sleeping in. Maes smirked to himself as he reached for the still-percolating coffee pot, thinking of how much his best friend, Roy Mustang, hated Monday mornings. He was no morning glory to begin with, but Mondays were like a personal evil to him and he made absolutely no efforts to reign in the deep ire he felt on the first morning of every week... and he tended to make sure that everyone around him was just as miserable until he'd had a few cups of coffee.

Yes, mornings at Central Headquarters were certainly much more pleasant now that Roy had been transferred to the Eastern HQ... Of course, Maes missed seeing his long-time friend at work every day, but they still spoke on the phone frequently—though Maes _usually_ waited until at least ten o'clock before daring to call him—and they had even met for drinks once or twice in the last couple of months, just to catch up.

Maes lifted his newly filled cup to his face and inhaled the rich, warm aroma before taking a long, bracing sip. Oh god, it was divine. Just exactly what he needed.

He exited the lounge, thinking that perhaps—just for kicks and the sake of nostalgia—he would call Roy this morning and wish him a happy Monday. He grinned wickedly at the thought, knowing that the yet un-caffeinated colonel's response would likely be a colorful, "Go to _hell_, Hughes."

"Lieutenant Colonel, sir!"

Maes blinked and looked behind him. One of the lower-ranking men in the department—Maes honestly couldn't remember his name at the moment or even who he worked under—was jogging down the hallway toward him, looking pretty wide-awake in comparison to how Maes felt. In fact, he looked a downright worried.

"I stopped by your office, but you weren't there so I hoped you'd be here," the private said breathlessly, coming to a stop in front of him. He brushed his untidy mop of brown curls out of his face and looked up at Maes with wide, nervous eyes.

"Well..." Maes began, a little bemused, "You found me. How can I help you, Private?"

The young man hesitated. "You're friends with Major Armstrong, right...?" he asked finally. Ah, that's right. This kid worked under Armstrong... his name was something like Wallace or Williams, if Maes was recalling correctly.

"We've known each other for quite a while," Maes nodded, "I suppose you could call us friends."

"Then, sir, could you... that is..." the private trailed off and stopped again. Maes sighed inwardly and took a drag on his coffee, patiently waiting for him to get up the nerve to continue whatever it was that he was about to say.

"I think something's... wrong with him," he finished finally, scratching the back of his head in agitation.

"Something's wrong?" Maes frowned. "What do you mean? Is he ill?"

"No... not exactly. Well, maybe..."

"What, then?"

The private fidgeted, shifting foot-to-foot. "I'm not sure. Please, sir, can you try to talk to him? I tried, but... I-I don't know what else to do..."

Maes allowed his frown to deepen, his blank curiosity beginning to turn to concern. "Of course. Private..."

"Williams," he supplied, looking relieved.

"Private Williams." Maes made a mental note of that and started walking toward Armstrong's office, the private trotting after him. "I'm sure the Major is fine. You haven't been working under him for very long yet. He can be... a lot to take in sometimes. You'll get used to it. Eventually."

"Oh. Yes, sir. I mean, I know what you mean, sir." Williams looked over at him tensely. "But this isn't like that. It's... well, you'll see."

And he did. After the short walk down the hallway, Maes found himself standing in the open doorway of Major Alex Louis Armstrong's office.

For the first few moments, all Maes could do was stare, his lips slightly parted in surprise, the coffee cup in his hand unknowingly tipping to dribble hot coffee onto the papers that had been scattered all over the carpeted floor.

"Private Williams..." Maes breathed when he found his voice, "I need to get Colonel Mustang's office on the phone."

* * *

><p>The phone on the desk rang. Riza picked it up instinctively, not really paying attention to what she was doing. She was too intent on watching the figure in front of her.<p>

"Colonel Mustang's office."

"_Lieutenant Hawkeye, it's Hughes_."

"Good morning, Lieutenant Colonel," she greeted distractedly.

"_Is Colonel Mustang in yet? I know it's a long-shot this early on a Monday, but I really need to speak with him_."

"...Yes, he's here."

"_Great. Lemme talk to him."_

Riza swallowed. "You'll have to call him back. I... don't think he can talk at the moment."

"_Damnit, tell him it's urgent._"

"I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to call back. Goodbye, Lieutenant Colonel."

"_No, wait!_"

She took the phone from her ear and lowered it back toward the cradle. Distantly, she could still hear Hughes' voice from the receiver, saying something about Armstrong and transmutation circles, but she wasn't really listening. She dropped the phone back onto its hook and cut off the connection.

She was a little early this morning, but that wasn't unusual for her. She had walked into the office just a few moments before the phone started ringing, but only two paces into the room she had stopped dead in her tracks. She hadn't even taken off her coat yet. All she could do was stop and stare.

The office was in shambles. Papers and document folders littered the floor, starkly white against the dark carpeting. Most of them looked as if they'd been swept off of Mustang's desk and had been allowed to stay wherever they landed. Many of the papers were covered in hurried writing and half-conceived sketches of things that Riza couldn't quite make out. One of the windows behind the desk had been broken, and the glass on the floor glittered as the sun rose outside the window, throwing shards of pale, eerie light onto the walls.

Riza took a slow, uncertain step toward the desk, finally managing to tear her eyes away from the man standing and facing the opposite wall of the office. There were numbers and words here, carved into the desk with what Riza could only assume was a shard from the broken window. Curls of scraped wood dusted the surface of the desk like confetti and Riza brushed some of it aside to try and read what was written there, but it was in no language that she had ever seen. There were also small, yet ornate transmutation circles and alchemic symbols carved in beside the words and numerals, but they made just about as much sense to her as the foreign letters. Nearly every inch of the desk's once-pristine surface was now wrecked with carved words and hewn diagrams, all of them clearly made in frantic haste. Even the arms of the desk chair hadn't escaped the destructive writing and white cotton-fluff bulged from the ruined leather like organs from a belly wound.

Her heart was beating hard in her chest and the tempo increased with every new detail that she saw. She didn't understand what she was looking at, and it unsettled her in a very deep and terrifying way.

She heard footsteps enter the door of the office behind her, barely audible over the sound of her pounding blood, but she did not turn to greet them.

"What... what is he doing?" Fuery asked at her back, after a long, bewildered pause.

Without looking back at him but turning to face her commander's back again, she said, "...I don't know."

Mustang stood facing the far side of the office, one hand pressed against the surface of the wall, the other raised, with glass shard in hand, tearing those incomprehensible symbols and numbers into the dull grey paint with fast, frenzied strokes. The marks were everywhere, the characters densely scratched into the wall, all the way from the baseboards to as high as he could reach. He had marked over three fourths of the large wall he was currently working on, as well as the spaces between the windows behind his desk. When Riza looked closer, she could see that he had even scratched into the windows themselves, the cryptic words draw in faint lines on the glass.

The phone on the desk rang again. It was most likely Hughes, angry at being hung up on, but Riza ignored it. Instead she took a few hesitant steps toward her commander, going to his side so that she could see his face.

He was mumbling to himself.

"...Colonel Mustang?"

He didn't seem to hear her. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed, shadowed by dark, exhausted circles. He was focused intently on his canvas as he worked, a strange and manic kind of energy flowing off of him. But his onyx eyes, as intent as they appeared, were also somehow... blank. They were foreign and distant, a stranger's eyes that she had never seen before. For a just a split second, she wasn't even completely sure that the man in front of her _was_ Roy Mustang. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, because this man before her was so pallid and sick looking that she didn't want to believe it was really him.

His hair was tangled and it hung in his hollow eyes. His uniform was rumpled and only half-buttoned, so unlike the immaculate, proud way that he always donned it. That small fact by itself was enough to tell her that something was very wrong; even if his hair was often a mess and his face was sometimes exhausted, Mustang took a lot of time and pride in his dress and he would have never, ever, left the house looking like this while in his right mind.

That, more than his blank eyes and his breathless mumblings, was what really started to scare her.

Riza felt Fuery come up beside her. She looked over at him and they shared a confused, alarmed glance. Neither of them really knew what to do.

"Colonel? Sir?" Fuery tried but, as before, he didn't respond. He didn't even know that they were there.

After a moment's thought, Riza reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. "Sir, are you all right?"

Even then he didn't look at her, but he did pause in his carving. His lifted his piece of glass from the wall and hesitated, his brow furrowing as if he was listening for something that was coming from very far away. Encouraged, Riza took him by the arms and forced him to turn away from the wall and face her. She shook him hard and shouted, "Colonel!"

Finally, with a kind of dreamy sluggishness, he looked at her. He stared for a moment, his eyes still so disturbingly dead and blank, but then he blinked and the light of intelligence seemed to return to them.

"...What?" he asked. His voice was hoarse and dry.

"I asked if you were all right," she said quietly, dropping her hands and allowing herself to feel just the tiniest bit of relief.

"Oh... of course," he answered blearily, sounding deeply confused, like a man who had just been shocked awake out of a vivid dream. "I told you I'm fine. Stop asking."

"Stop asking? What do you...?" she started to respond in worried exasperation but before she could finish, her commander's eyes lost focus again and his knees suddenly buckled. He tottered backward and slid down the wall, collapsing into a stunned heap on the floor, the shard of glass slipping from his fingers and falling to the carpet.

Both Fuery and Riza were kneeling down beside him in an instant. He put one trembling hand to his forehead with a soft groan, his eyes shut tightly. He had been pale before, but now even his lips had drained of color until they were a ghostly grey-white. The only warmth that remained in his face now was the redness around his eyes as he opened them and looked up at his subordinates.

"I'm fine," he rasped, blinking dazedly. "Just... just got a little light-headed..."

He started trying to get up and both of his subordinates worriedly helped him to his feet. He swayed woozily, allowing himself to lean on them as they ushered him over to his desk. He collapsed back into his leather chair, groggy and very clearly unfocused, and rubbed his face with his hands. He was trembling.

"Ngh... will s-someone get that?" he asked shakily after a moment, and it took Riza a confused beat to realize that the telephone was still ringing. She looked to Fuery, but he was already reaching for it without needing to be asked.

"Colonel Mustang's office," he answered in a high, flustered rush. "Oh, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes..."

Riza grimaced and turned her attentions back to her superior, the waxy white pallor of his cheeks making her stomach churn.

"Sir, should I call a doctor?" she offered timidly as he lowered his hands from his face and opened his bloodshot eyes again.

"No... No, I'm fine. I think you're right... M-maybe I am coming down with something." He wiped his hand over his dry, cracked lips and swallowed, nauseated. "I should just go home." He looked down at his desk tiredly but then, slowly, his face contorted into an exhausted kind of outrage.

"What the _hell_ happened to my desk?" he demanded.

"Sir..."

He leaned over for a closer look at the destroyed wood, his fingers tracing the splintered designs. The outrage on his face softened a little, but his brow remained furrowed with confusion. His lips parted and he took in a soft breath. "Hawkeye... Hawkeye, what is this?"

He looked up at her with a kind of sick half-knowledge, uncertain. Riza's stomach clenched even harder.

"Sir, I think you did this."

"...No." He shook his head slowly, his brow still furrowed. "I don't..."

"When I came in, you were carving things into the wall..." she told him, the taste of alarm at the back of her throat returning. She gestured at the wall and he looked over. He stared, bewildered and starting to become agitated. She could tell by the look on his face that he didn't remember.

"I couldn't possibly have..." he said in breathless denial. "This would have taken me _hours_. You've only been gone a few minutes and I just..."

He trailed off, likely because of the disturbed expression that Riza could not keep from spreading across her face. "A few minutes? Sir..." She stopped and took a breath, fearing to ask it, but then she pressed on, "What day do you think it is...?"

Hesitantly, he turned and looked over his shoulder out the broken window. The sun was up and it was looking to be a beautiful Monday morning, which she could tell by the thrill of horror that stiffened Mustang's shoulders was not at all what he'd expected to see. To him, it should have still been night, which meant...

"It's Monday, Colonel... Have you been here all weekend?" she asked, sick.

He turned his back to the window again and looked up at her, his uncertainty now laced with a kind of confused horror.

"I... I-I don't know."


	2. Scrawl

Roy's head was pounding. His vision was blurred and the sharp splinters of pain behind his eyes only made it worse. His heart was throbbing just as chaotically as his head, beating so hard that his chest hurt and every breath was a tremulous, nauseating ordeal.

His sore eyes moved back down to the surface of his desk, to the tangle of equations and transmutation circles and garbled, long-dead languages that had been carved there. That _he_ had carved there.

No. No... This was not possible. How could it be Monday? How could he have lost two whole days?

He couldn't stop shaking.

"You don't remember doing this?" Hawkeye asked quietly, her soft, worried voice penetrating the fog of exhausted terror that was floating through his brain. She sounded terrified for him, and Roy felt his pulse quicken even further. He shook his head, words sticking in his dry throat too much for him to speak. He swallowed, but his parched mouth did almost nothing to dampen his throat.

The initial, jarring shock of being shaken from whatever spell—or, more likely, some kind of powerful psychological event—he had been under was wearing off, and Roy took stock of himself. He felt terrible. The pain in his head was some of the worst he'd ever experienced. Even sitting down, the room was spinning and if it weren't for the fact that his stomach was achingly empty, he likely would have vomited. He was badly dehydrated, he knew that for certain. If he had been here since Friday night, destroying his office without pause, then it was no wonder. He hadn't eaten, slept, or had anything to drink in days and his entire body was _screaming_ for him to nourish it.

What the hell had _happened_? Maybe he should take Hawkeye up on her offer to call a doctor. People didn't just blank out for two days without reason. Not sane, healthy people, at least. His mind was absolutely whirring, roaring with exhaustion. It sounded like whispering in his ears, a low and profoundly distracting hiss that almost sounded like words when he closed his eyes and listened to it...

"Mustang…? Sir?"

Roy looked over at Fuery, only just realizing in his distraction that he'd called his name several times. He was handing the phone to him, his hand held over the mouthpiece. He looked nervous. "I know this isn't a good time... but Major Hughes really wants to speak with you."

"Tell him to call back later," Hawkeye ordered him tightly.

"No, I'll take it."

Fuery looked to Hawkeye unhappily, but then she nodded and he let Roy take the phone.

"What, Hughes?" he croaked into the receiver.

"_Mustang!_" Hughes exclaimed, "_What the hell is so important over there that you can't take an urgent call? Something's going on with Armstrong. I think he's finally snapped._"

It took Roy a moment to process what Hughes was saying. His mind felt sluggish and distracted. The headache just made it worse, as did the ghostly whispering.

"What...? What's wrong with him?" Roy managed to ask finally.

"_I don't know. He tore apart his office and drew all these transmutation circles all over everything. I honestly don't know what to make of it..."_

Roy's jittery heart gave a sharp lurch in his chest.

"_I mean, he was writing on the walls, Roy. I think he's been here all weekend. Does this mean anything to you? I saw the transmutation circles and my first instinct was to call you. Ever seen anything like this before?_"

He almost laughed. The terror in his breast that had been growing since he snapped out of his daze had lessened a little to think that someone else, another alchemist, was going through the same thing he was. But then it occurred to him that perhaps that made the situation even worse. If two different people... located in completely different parts of the country... who both happened to be alchemists of the State... simultaneously had some kind of mental break that stole their senses and forced them to destroy their own offices...

...Then what did it mean?

* * *

><p>Izumi Curtis rolled over, leaned over the side of the bed, and vomited a small, trickling mouthful of blood into the awaiting basin below. Good, just a little blood this time. Her head felt like it was going to explode and her guts burned within her, but she felt a little better than she had earlier. Her fever was breaking.<p>

"I was afraid I was going to lose you, love," her husband told her, his naturally husky voice touched with the sweetness of concern. He was on the bed beside her, and he draped an arm across her chest as she lay back again. He reached over and wiped a smudge of blood from her lower lip, his huge hand deceptively gentle. "It got pretty bad this time."

"I don't remember anything past Friday night," she mumbled, groggy. She snuggled against his side and closed her eyes. She almost couldn't believe it was Monday. She had been sick most of last week, and then sometime Friday it started to get really bad. She couldn't concentrate on anything and she could barely hold a conversation. Even now, her mind was fuzzy. The last thing she could remember was Mason holding her down on the bed while Sieg forced her medicine between her lips.

"I think you were hallucinating. You kept trying to get up and wouldn't sleep. You were drawing transmutation circles on the floor."

Izumi lifted her heavy head and turned to look back over her shoulder at the wooden floor of her bedroom. It looked as if someone had tried to cover it with the rug, but she could see the edges of multiple transmutation circles peeking out from under it. There were also words here and there, crudely hacked into the wood.

Odd.

* * *

><p>"...We're here, sir."<p>

Mustang looked up slowly. His typically sharp eyes were dull and red-rimmed. He blinked.

"Oh..." he mumbled, looking around and realizing that they were outside of his apartment. Kain was standing outside of the company car, holding the door open for him. He got out of the car, stumbling a little as he stepped onto the curb. "Thank you, Fuery."

After getting some water and a little food into him back at the office, Hawkeye had asked him to take the colonel home. Kain was only too happy to comply. Mustang looked terrible, to say the least. He was distant and didn't seem to be able to focus properly. Even on the drive over, he'd kept spacing out and losing track of what was going on. If it weren't for the fact that it was happening to other alchemists as well, Kain might have thought that he was suffering from some kind of neurological injury: perhaps a mild stroke or even some kind of epileptic event that had addled his brain.

But no, Mustang was not the only one suffering from this mysterious ailment. Armstrong, for one, had also been stricken. But it wasn't just him, either. There were now eight more State Alchemists to add to the list, and there were a hell of a lot more of them that no one could seem to contact. Even civilian alchemists were being reported as acting strangely. Many had been admitted to hospitals at various points over the weekend, their families worried about their behavior. The hospitals all over the country were reporting that new alchemist patients were coming in every hour.

Only alchemists seemed to be affected and whatever it was, it was widespread.

Mustang massaged his brow and headed toward the stairs leading up to his apartment. Kain could tell that the man was deeply shaken by the events of the morning and honestly wondered whether or not he should be alone, but by the looks of him he was probably just going to collapse into bed. Still, he would make sure that someone from the office called him at least a few times throughout the day. You know. Just in case.

"I hope you feel better, sir," Kain told him sincerely, watching his back as he ascended the stair.

He responded with a soft, absent grunt. But then he paused, mid-step, and turned to look back at Kain over his shoulder. His brow was furrowed.

"What is it, Colonel? Are you okay?" Kain asked, taking a step toward him.

"...Something just occurred to me."

"What?"

Mustang stared at him for a beat, then raised his hand to his brow again and pinched the bridge of his nose in fatigued frustration. "Damn it... I can't remember."

Kain's stomach squirmed. "I'm sure it'll come back to you. You must be tired. Try to sleep and maybe you'll remember when you wake up."

"No. Wait. It was important," he insisted, closing his eyes tightly. "Just wait a minute."

And so Kain waited, nervously, fidgeting like an out-of-place kid in a situation that far exceeded his comprehension. But then Mustang opened his eyes, and opened them wide. He dropped his hand from his face and breathed:

"...Has anyone thought to check on the Elrics?"

* * *

><p>Maes' shoulder rammed into the door. He backed up and hit it again and the sound of splintering wood echoed down the hallway of the barracks. He had tried knocking, but there was no answer and, given the situation, Maes didn't feel like waiting for the barrack guard to bring him the key. A deep foreboding had coiled itself tightly in his gut, and he could not relax until he knew that the boys were safe. The fact that they hadn't answered the door to his knocking only wound the coil even tighter, and as he battered the door down he could only hope that maybe they just weren't there.<p>

But if they _weren't_ here, that just brought on a whole new kind of worry.

The latch on the door loosed one last, plaintive groan and gave. Maes stumbled inward, his instincts as a military man sensing that something was very wrong, and his fingers itched to draw his knives.

He saw Alphonse first. His bulk was hard to miss, even sitting as he was on the floor in the corner. One of his hands was upraised, the light from the open window glinting the morning's sun off of his forearm. He worked rhythmically, hypnotically, carving those alarmingly familiar equations into the wall.

Almost every surface of the smallish room was textured with the writing. The floor, the furniture, the baseboards, and yes, the walls were almost completely covered. The only blank area was a patch on the wall opposite from Alphonse. Here, the writing went from tight, to loose, to illegible, and it curved downward into a single, jagged line that pointed to the floor...

...and the body lying upon it.

Maes cried out and rushed forward, hitting his knees beside Edward's limp, unmoving form and rolling him over. He was breathing shallowly, sucking rattling breaths into his lungs. His parted lips were so parched that blood oozed from the cracks, hinting at the severe dehydration that his body was suffering. Maes swore.

"Edward!" he shouted in the kid's face.

Ed's eyes were half-lidded and sunken with exhaustion. He was mumbling, the words so quiet and garbled that Maes didn't even try to understand them. He already knew that the words meant nothing, as he had heard the exact same mumblings from Armstrong just a couple of hours before. He shook the boy in his arms, trying to rouse him from his stupor. He didn't respond.

"Damn it, Ed!"

Maes reached down and, with his thumb and forefinger, grabbed a thin piece of skin on the side of Ed's neck and pinched it as hard as he could.

Ed's eyes flipped open wider and he sucked in a startled gasp, his whole body stiffening in Maes' arms in response to the sudden pain. He coughed dryly and started to tremble, his unfocused eyes traveling to Maes' face.

"Ed, kiddo..." Maes called anxiously, brushing his tangled hair out of his face, "Can you hear me?"

Ed gave a soft, almost inaudible moan, and his eyes sank completely shut. Maes swore again and collected him against his chest. He got to his feet with Ed's limp body in his arms, casting an uncertain glance toward Alphonse. The youngest Elric had barely even moved. Maes knelt beside him and shouted his name, screamed it, over and over again.

"Hey, Alphonse! Al!"

He cradled Ed in one arm and banged on Al's armor with his clenched fist. He even went so far as to grab Al's wrist in an attempt to halt his writing, but he didn't stop or look up. He was absorbed with his task and Maes may as well have been a fly battering himself against his metal skin, as much good as it did him to try and bring him back to reality.

Maes knew a panicked moment of indecision. He was going to have to leave Al here, because while both boys were clearly being taken over by the strange alchemic sickness, only Ed was in physical danger. He was badly dehydrated and needed a hospital as fast as Maes could drive him there.

He was going to have to leave Al behind.

"I'll come back for you," he promised, hugging Ed closer and standing. He rushed out the door and down the stairs to his car.

* * *

><p>Fuhrer King Bradley sat back in his impressive chair, behind his equally impressive desk, and massaged his fingers into his temple.<p>

For the first time in a very, _very_ long time... he had a headache. A bad one.

It had been so long in fact, that he had forgotten what they felt like. Bradley—or Wrath, as he referred to himself for the most part—rarely underwent the daily pains felt by the mortals he ruled, but that is not to say that he didn't experience it at all. Physical pain was no stranger to him. How could it be, when he was the leader of a vast country, one who insisted on being smack in the middle of the battlefield—much, he might add, to the admiration of his people—fighting alongside his men? Of course he'd been injured at times. He'd been battered, bruised, sliced, stabbed, shot, and any other manner of wartime wounding that one could think of.

No, he was used to pain and it did not bother him in the slightest. He was not, however, accustomed to just _not feeling well_. This headache was a novelty, as was the dizzy sensation in his gut that it took him a while to identify as nausea. Homunculi did not, as a general rule, get ill.

Alone in his office, Bradley closed his visible eye, and silently marveled at the dull pain in his head, feeling it pulse behind his brow. Still, as unsettling as these unusual sensations were, he had more important things to focus on.

Something was wrong with the Alchemists.

It wasn't just one or two of them, either. It was all of them. The State Alchemists seemed to be falling apart at the seams, and even civilian alchemists were fumbling around on the streets as if they had lost their minds. Bradley had ordered that each State Alchemist be frequently checked up on by a subordinate, and so far this seemed to be helping a little, but each Alchemist's mysterious symptoms were still lingering.

It had been two days since the outbreak of alchemic illness, and already mass panic was beginning to flood across the nation. Many of the alchemists had been found scrawling nonsense over their offices and bedrooms, others—like Fullmetal, who had just been released from Central Hospital this morning—had been found unconscious, overcome by dehydration and malnutrition, their sudden, unnatural obsessions with their unknowable projects keeping them from food, drink, and sleep for days.

The press was unshakable; Bradley could hardly leave his office without being bombarded with questions about what was going on. The only thing he could definitively tell them was that only alchemists were affected by the malady. Moreover, the individual alchemist's skill seemed to decide how deeply the malady affected them. Beginning alchemy students and those who were just vague hobbyists in the art didn't appear to be nearly as affected as those who had made alchemy a profession or were particularly talented in it.

Needless to say, this meant that every single one of Bradley's State Alchemists were all but useless at the moment. And things were only getting worse as the days passed. For the most part, they had stopped drawing and writing their archaic nonsense unless they were left alone for too long, but they were still increasingly distracted and could barely carry a conversation. Bradley had spent nearly twenty minutes on the phone with Colonel Mustang trying to discuss what needed to be done and to gauge how badly the highest-ranking alchemist had been incapacitated by the outbreak—_badly_, it seemed—before he got frustrated with the Colonel's distraction and had him put Lieutenant Hawkeye on the phone to speak for him. She had agreed that holding a meeting in Central, where all the suffering military alchemists could be grouped in one place as they assessed the situation and decided how to best deal with what was happening.

Bradley had called a meeting for the following afternoon. Every State Alchemist—each chaperoned by at least one subordinate—was to report to Central Headquarters by noon tomorrow.

Whatever this was, they would deal with it. There was no other option, really. Bradley didn't know what the meeting would bring or—given their current mental state—how many of the Alchemists would be about themselves enough to show up, but the great Fuhrer and Homunculus honestly didn't have any better ideas at this point. He _needed_ his State Alchemists. They were the lifeblood of this country and were one of the most powerful political pieces that Bradley had to play.

As much of a thorn in his side as some of them tended to be—Mustang and Fullmetal, particularly—he could not afford to lose them... _especially_ those two. They were an integral part of something far beyond the political stability of this country. Father had made it abundantly clear that they were both to be watched closely, and nothing was to happen to them. Not yet, anyway. And that just brought a whole new kind of pressure to finding out what was going on. Not only was the country depending on Bradley to repair this situation, but so were the rest of the Homunculi and the goals they were destined to achieve.

Everything they had been working for was at risk. Every carefully laid plan, every excruciating detail, every drop of blood and sweat... all of it would be worth nothing if anything were to happen to the alchemists.

Bradley's stomach churned uncomfortably and, with slow frustration, in a private show of weakness that likely would have disturbed any one of his men had they been present, he lowered his throbbing brow his desk and buried his head in his arms.

He didn't know what it meant, but Bradley could not ignore how his lingering—and increasingly unpleasant—sickness was coinciding with the malady of the alchemists. It was too strange to be a coincidence; the two conditions had to be connected. The air Bradley breathed was heavy and unsatisfying, as if there was some kind of great weight sitting upon his chest that kept him from drawing complete lungfuls.

But deeper than his physical discomfort, there was a sort of jitteriness, an anxiousness flitting around inside of him that he could not shake. It was like the thrill of being on the edge of a promising battle, the anticipation of something great and terrible coming toward him... but this manner of anticipation was in the face of an unknown outcome, for a battle with an unknown enemy. All Bradley knew was that something was coming.

And even he, the great Fuhrer of Amestris, Wrath the Homunculus, did not know how to fight it.


	3. Beacon of Hope

Riza looked behind her to watch Mustang ascend the grand steps leading up to the looming whiteness of Central Headquarters. He was following her, but slowly, and he kept pausing as if he wasn't entirely sure of what he was doing or where he was going. As she watched he stopped again, his bleary eyes wandering over to watch another group of soldiers—some of them likely State Alchemists, judging by how they wandered around until another soldier in their party regained their attention.

She went back down the stairs to his side and took his arm.

"Sir?"

It took a moment, but his eyes eventually trained themselves onto her face and he grunted.

"Yeah, yeah..." he mumbled to her grumpily, rubbing his brow with one hand as he allowed her to lead him up the steps.

He was getting worse. According to Fuhrer Bradley, all of the alchemists were. Mustang had barely spoken a word on the train ride over. He'd just stared out the window the entire time, one finger absently tracing invisible transmutation circles against the thigh of his uniform.

He did have his moments of clarity, though. They were few and far between—and getting even more rare, as the days progressed—but he seemed to be trying his damnedest to stay alert since they had arrived in Central. His mind was still getting fogged and lost at times, but he was more functional than he had been for the past few days. Perhaps it was out of habit, since as a soldier he had always made it a point to be on his toes whenever in Central. Whatever the case, it was encouraging that, over the past hour or so, he had seemed a little less distant. Certainly more frustrated and irritated with his own inattention, but Riza supposed that was simply because he was currently more aware of it.

There were a few people gathered outside the meeting hall, and the open door showed that many were already inside and had seated themselves, fidgeting anxiously, waiting for Bradley to arrive and begin discussions. Riza caught sight of Edward just outside the massive wooden doors, his bright red coat hard to miss amidst the sea of dark blue. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes was at his side, and he raised his hand in greeting, calling them over when he saw them.

"Good morning, sir," Riza said as they approached.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he answered her, but his eyes were fixed on Mustang, taking him in. The crease that suddenly appeared between his brows let her know that he, too, thought Mustang looked terrible.

He looked a bit better than when Riza had first found him in his office days ago, when he'd been bereft of food, water, and sleep for days on end... but not much. Since then, Riza had made very sure that Mustang ate regularly and always had some kind of liquid on hand—which was a trial in itself, since Mustang was rather prone to forgetting about meals even when he was completely healthy—but she had a very firm hunch that he still wasn't sleeping well. He didn't say anything about it and she knew better than to ask, which was one of the many reasons that Riza was glad they ran into Hughes so quickly. His relationship with Mustang was a little less strict, and he pretty much said what he wanted to say to the colonel, whenever he wanted to say it. Whether or not they were on duty.

"Damn, Mustang..." Hughes said to him, acting playfully irreverent to hide his concern, "You look like you haven't slept in _weeks_."

Mustang was looking at the other group of alchemists again, but finally he raised his head and acknowledged the lieutenant colonel. It took him a second to process the man's words, but then he grunted as he had before, looking irritated and exhausted.

"Perhaps I haven't."

Hughes gave him a small, worried smirk. "You'll sleep better after the meeting. Maybe one of the other alchemists has figured out what's going on."

"Hm," the colonel grunted again, not sounding even slightly convinced. "Maybe."

An unhappy silence passed between the four of them and Mustang's gaze wandered back toward the group of Alchemists. Ed, too, Riza noticed, was watching them.

The kid looked worse than Mustang, if she was going to be completely honest. Hughes had called the office right after finding him half-dead in his dormitory room to say that he'd taken him to the hospital. Since Ed was so young and his body was still growing and in need of more nutrients than an adult, those few days of no food or water had taken a much harsher toll on him than it had with many of the other alchemists... and the extra energy his body needed to burn in order to operate his automail certainly made matters even worse for him. Fullmetal was mostly okay; the hospital had needed to put him on intravenous fluids for a while to get him rehydrated, but they said he was going to be fine with enough bed rest and nourishment.

Fine or not however, he looked like a train wreck and it was clear that he had lost some weight in just those few days. Some of the roundness of his young face had disappeared, and he looked so very tired. His golden hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, but it wasn't braided as it usually was and looked as if it hadn't been brushed in a while. His bangs hung in his face haphazardly, partially hiding the blue-black shadows under his eyes. He looked in dire need of both sleep and a few balanced meals.

"How are you, Edward?" she felt compelled to ask, that very rare parental fiber that lived within her making itself felt at the sight of him.

Ed didn't respond immediately. But then, oddly, he reached up his sleeve and Riza heard a soft _snap _from the vicinity of his wrist_._ He winced a little, then blinked up at Riza and sighed, "Better. I think."

"He was in pretty bad shape, but he'll be okay," Hughes told her, either not noticing or just ignoring whatever Ed had done up his sleeve. He frowned and shot a glance to Mustang, then added, "Well, at least as 'okay' as the rest of the alchemists are..."

"And Al? Is he any better?"

Ed dropped his hands back to his sides. When he spoke, his voice was very soft. "No. Sometimes I can get him look at me... but mostly he just sits there, writing on the walls. Or just staring. That's what he was doing this morning. I don't think he's moved at all since last night."

There was pain in the young man's tone, and deep worry. Riza's heart squeezed for him and she dared to reach forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll figure this out. Everything will be fine, Ed." She half felt it a lie even as she said it, but she had no other way of offering comfort. Sometimes a little, comforting lie is necessary. Ed just clenched his jaw and looked at his feet.

According to Hughes, Al still hadn't snapped out of the obsessive daze that had plagued the alchemists of Amestris. Hughes had tried everything: screaming at him, speaking to him gently, hitting him, physically moving him away from the wall he'd been writing on... Nothing worked. The only upside was that Alphonse required no sustenance or sleep, so his altered mental state was not going to threaten his health... But poor Ed must be frightened and devastated by the pseudo-loss of his brother, not able to communicate with him even though he could be sitting right next to him...

Riza tried to smile and shift the subject a little. "Well, at least you seem pretty alert, Fullmetal. More alert than the colonel, at least."

At this the three of them looked over at Mustang, who was obliviously staring into space, not paying any attention to their conversation. The group of alchemists that he'd been watching had moved on, but he continued to stare at the bit of pavement where they had recently been standing.

Ed watched his superior for a moment, his hand wandering up his sleeve and producing that odd snapping sound again. Ed winced once more, but then his eyes seemed to brighten a little. "Oh, I almost forgot..."

He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out what looked to be a black rubber band, the kind that he tended to braid his hair with. He took one of Mustang's hands and slid the band onto his wrist. Sluggishly, Mustang turned his head and looked down at him. He didn't pull away or really react at all, just bemusedly watched him without any real expression.

"Watch this," Ed told Riza. He pulled an edge of the band taut, then released it and let it snap hard against the tender inside of Mustang's wrist.

The colonel jumped. "Ow!" he exclaimed. He grabbed his wrist with his other hand and glared daggers down at Edward with suddenly bright and attentive eyes. "What the hell is wrong with...?"

But then he stopped. He looked around, as if in wonderment, before returning his eyes to his sore wrist. "..._Ow_," he said again softly, though this time his voice was full of contemplation rather than surprise and irritation.

He suddenly looked more focused than he had in days.

"I figured it out when Lieutenant Colonel Hughes told me how he got me to break out of that daze when he found me," Ed told him. He pointed to the side of his neck, where Riza could now see there was a pretty nasty-looking bruise. "He pinched me. Hard. I was thinking that maybe it was the pain that grounded me..." He rolled up the sleeve on his left hand and pushed the rubber band he was wearing there out of the way. The skin on his wrist was red and raised into stinging welts. Some of it was scabbed over as if it had been recently bleeding. It wasn't pretty.

"It's not a long-term solution..." he continued, grimacing down at his welts, "but snapping the band helps. I just give it a whack if my mind starts to wander... or Hughes does it for me if I'm too spacey. It's already not working as well as it was when I started doing it... but it's better than nothing. I think this might be why we can't wake Al... He can't feel pain, so we can't shake him from the daze. He's in there..." he stumbled a moment and brushed his hair out of his face, "...I just can't get to him."

"Clever..." Mustang mumbled, giving his own band another snap. "As uncomfortable as it is, I can feel a huge difference already. Good thinking."

Ed shrugged at the rare praise, looking disinterested, but Riza swore that she could see the flush of pride touching his pale cheeks.

After a few minutes of waiting for more State Alchemists and officials to gather, the four of them went inside and seated themselves in the meeting hall. Fuhrer Bradley was already seated at the center of the panel table, his fingers steepled. Riza watched him observing his Alchemists as they entered, his expression remaining ever closed. He looked paler than his usual self she noted, as if he, too, were suffering from lack of sleep. The thought of Bradley losing sleep and health over the wellbeing of his people was both touching and worrisome to Riza, given how stoic he typically was. She had never seen him look this out of sorts before. He looked positively ill as he watched his State Alchemists settle themselves.

Now that he was a little more alert—thanks to Ed's ingenuity—Mustang, too, was watching his cohorts with more than just vague confusion. He was watching them critically, regarding them as they gathered, and Riza could almost see his heart sink at the sight of them.

The alchemists—just about all of them—were complete wrecks. They were unkempt and groggy, as fragile looking as if they were battling some kind of terminal illness. Even Major Armstrong, that imposing, ever-powerful figure, seemed worn and tattered. Even the soldiers like Riza who were accompanying their alchemist superiors looked very frazzled and on edge, and Riza knew that they saw the same thing when they looked at her. All told, just about everyone at the meeting looked—and most certainly felt—awful.

Bradley began the meeting without much preamble. His obvious fatigue and distress was almost more unsettling than that of the disarrayed alchemists. The Fuhrer filled them in on the situation, but none of the information was really new. Alchemists from all over were still being brought to hospitals by their families; others were still missing, feared to have wandered off and been unable to find their way back home in their altered state of mind.

A few older alchemists had been found dead in their homes over the past few days, though no one could determine what had caused their deaths. Stress on their hearts, possibly... although one of the deaths was being handled as a suicide.

Even though she'd heard this all before, Riza couldn't help but feel the knot of fear in her gut tighten as the Fuhrer spoke. What the hell was going on? And, more importantly, was there a way to stop it? People were dying from this now. Another dead alchemist had been found that very morning, discovered by her brother. The reports said that she had lived alone, and no one had heard from her for days before she was found. Her brother found her body on the floor of her kitchen, surrounded by that alchemic writing. She had died of dehydration. There had been a fully-functioning sink not two feet away from her... and in her delirium she had chosen to perish rather than stop writing for long enough to take a drink.

"I've called you all here for a reason," Bradley was saying. He paused for a moment, uncharacteristically hesitant, then went on, "I'm at a loss, men. Something beyond my knowledge and understanding is happening to all of you... and I can't even begin to figure out what to do about it. Any further information you can provide to me, to all of us, may help in better understanding the situation and finding a way to remedy it. Please, tell me what is going on in your heads. Shed some light on this for us. Because as it is..." He spread his hands helplessly, leaning back in his chair.

Stillness took the room. The assisting soldiers all looked at each other. Most of the alchemists weren't even paying attention. Those few of them who were able to follow the Fuhrer's words stared at the floor, not knowing what to say. Beside her, Mustang snapped the band around his wrist and, slowly, got to his feet.

"Yes, Mustang," Bradley acknowledged him, looking almost relieved.

"Sir..." he began, but then he stopped and rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand. "This is... it's very hard to put into words."

"Anything is better than nothing, Colonel."

"I suppose, sir." Mustang snapped the band again and clenched his jaw. He didn't say anything for several more seconds, then he took a breath.

"Something is Calling us."

The room stirred a little. Even some of the spaced-out alchemists raised their heads.

"What is it?" Bradley asked, resting his folded hands on the panel table in front of him and leaning forward.

"I don't know. I don't know what it is. I don't even know where it wants me to go or what it wants me to do. It's like a phantom whispering in my ear. Just... constantly whispering, for days now. And I don't have a damn clue what it's saying."

He put a hand to his head and massaged his temple. There was a tenseness in his voice that Riza was not accustomed to hearing. He sounded as if he were working very hard to keep himself from getting upset. "It isn't even really a voice. It's just a feeling. Impressions. And an odd urge to write it all down, to try and figure it out, to calculate..."

"That's the carving and transmutation circles, I'm assuming?" Bradley asked.

Mustang nodded uncomfortably. He put a hand to his wrist. _Snap_. "It's hard to breathe. It's hard to think. There's a pressure in the air, a need for... for some kind of release..."

"It's like... having to sneeze, but not being able to," Ed supplied, standing at Mustang's side. "But much more intense. It's frustrating. Almost painful."

"A crude analogy, but yes," Mustang agreed. "It's as if there's something that I have to do... somewhere I have to go... but I don't know what or where. But something deep within me yearns to follow the Call. The fact that I'm not following it and don't even understand it is absolutely _maddening_..."

"Exactly," Ed rejoined. "I feel like..." he crossed his arms over his chest and looked, very suddenly, like the world-weary little boy that he often pretended not to be. "I feel like I would do almost anything to make this feeling stop."

Several alchemists in the room nodded and breathed soft, troubled words of agreement. Riza and Hughes looked at each other. While they had know that, of course, the alchemists were deeply troubled by what was happening to them, neither of them had understood how deep this went.

Mustang looked down at Fullmetal and swallowed tightly, then raised his head again. Riza could almost see him pushing back his doubts and fears, thrusting that classic Mustang confidence to the forefront of his being. It was painful to watch. She sat back in her chair, knowing what he was about to do, and cringed inwardly.

The colonel looked around at his fellow alchemists and threw them a cocky smirk. Only Riza and Hughes could see how thin that smile was and they exchanged another unhappy glance.

"But there is clarity through pain, my friends. Fullmetal discovered it." He raised his hand to show the band around his wrist, then snapped it in demonstration. "Inducing pain clears the head a little and brings us back to reality when our minds wander. This isn't going to solve the problem, but I know that speaking for myself, it's helping me focus a great deal. And with this tentative focus, together we may be able to figure out what is going on and put a stop to it."

Mustang lowered his voice, and that fire that Riza knew so well began to smolder behind his tired eyes as he spoke again. She had to hand it to him... as exhausted as he was, he was still Roy Mustang.

"We are Alchemists of the State. We have been through worse hells, and we will come out of this."

The alchemists stirred again, interested and, for the first time, looking hopeful. Sometimes it only took a few carefully chosen words to rally a crowd, and Mustang had always been a talented speaker on that front. While this particular little speech was sloppy and weak by his standards, Mustang's peers were desperate enough to latch onto any little glimmer of hope that they could. More than any of the other State Alchemists, Roy Mustang was truly born to lead. Even in a crisis—or, truly, _especially_ in a crisis—people were drawn to him.

As wrought and spent as he clearly was, Riza could see that just about every soldier in the room was already looking to him for guidance. She sighed to herself, knowing that he really was the best man for the job, but quietly doubting that he had the strength or presence of mind to do it this time. Sure, through the mild pain trick that Ed had introduced to him he was much clearer-minded than he had been just this morning... but something deep within her knew that it wasn't going to be enough. If Mustang himself needed help, how could everyone around him expect him to lead them?

Bradley commended Edward and Mustang on discovering the thought-clearing tool of pain and suggested that the other alchemists give it a try. None of them looked exactly thrilled about the prospect of purposefully hurting themselves, but she saw many somber nods of agreement in the room. What other option did they really have?

The meeting continued on from there, but since no one else really had anything to contribute, Bradley called it to a close before too long. He dismissed them with the final command to stay in Central for the time being, and he ordered each alchemist's subordinates to watch their respective superiors closely.

As they were leaving, all of them walking back down those front steps to HQ, Riza reflected that she didn't feel any better about the situation than she had upon ascending them. She saw Mustang—tired, anxious Mustang—and knew without asking that he felt the same way. The difference was that Mustang had no choice but to keep silent about his doubts and misgivings. He had made himself a beacon of hope, and he had no other option than to keep himself shining brightly.

"Roy..." Hughes began, and she could hear the same caution she felt in his voice.

"I know," Mustang answered him as he walked. The burden that he'd just taken onto his shoulders was immense, and Riza imagined she could see it weighing him down with every step. "I know."

* * *

><p>Roy sat at his desk, alone in the generic officer's room he had been assigned while staying in Central. He pulled back the band that Ed had given him days ago and let it snap against his wrist. He had been doing this so often for the past few days that he scarcely even felt it as the black elastic bit into the bloody, half-scabbed underside of his wrist. As Ed had warned, the band was almost completely ineffective now.<p>

Still, if all went according to plan, he wouldn't be needing it much longer.

He chewed his thumbnail and looked over the papers on his desk again, his own hurried writing lit by the modest green desk lamp at his side. He was nervous. As he looked back over the papers again however, his notes kept bringing him back to the same conclusion that—if his theories were correct—the pros of this experiment would far outweigh the cons.

With the band-snap losing effectiveness, Roy had found himself unable to continue researching for any clues as to what was going on with him and his fellow alchemists. His only option was to take a short hiatus from that research and delve into a new kind of study, one that would hopefully lead to a better solution to his foggy-mindedness. It had been his first thought to start inflicting more intense amounts of pain on himself... but Roy had a fairly high pain tolerance and knew that he would be right back where he'd started once he got used to it and it wasn't enough to clear his mind anymore.

So then Roy stopped and thought about the mechanics of pain. What was it _about_ the pain that kept the Call from stealing their senses and encroaching upon their minds? The adrenaline, Roy supposed. Sure, it was a very small dose when administered by the rubber band, but the stimulant was known for its ability to sharpen minds and enhance reflexes. It was a natural defense mechanism in response to pain that had been a part of human brain chemistry since they were grunting cave men. But what, then, could harness the stimulating effects of adrenaline other than pain or primal fear?

And after some lengthy searching and inner debate, a possible solution came to him.

It was, however, a solution that he did not like in the _slightest_.

He ran a hand through his hair and let his eyes fix themselves on the tool of his experimentation.

"...I cannot believe I'm doing this..." he muttered to himself.

He clenched his jaw and sighed, hoping that he wasn't going to regret this, then bent his head over the substance on his desk and inhaled sharply.

* * *

><p>"...Al?"<p>

No response.

It wasn't exactly surprising by this point. Truthfully, Ed probably would have been more surprised if Al actually _had_ replied to him.

It had been a week since everything went to hell.

It had been a _week_ since Alphonse had spoken a single word.

Ed was almost getting used to sharing the dorm room with his silent form, that glimmer of hope within him that insisted that Al would come back to himself soon shrinking smaller and smaller with every passing day. Major Hughes and his wife had offered to let Ed stay with them rather than sit with his silently spaced-out brother night after night—it wasn't as if Al would even notice if he left...—but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Even if Al couldn't hear him or didn't know that he was there, Ed just couldn't leave him alone.

Moreover, Ed didn't want to be without him, even if he couldn't speak to him.

It was getting dark in the room. The sun had gone down without Ed really noticing—he'd lost track of time, as he was increasingly often over the passing days—and he hadn't yet felt the need to turn the lights on. The sky outside was still a pale, diluted orange where it met the horizon and it was still enough for him to see by.

Ed sat on his bed in the dimness, across from where Al was sitting—just sitting and staring, as always—and rolled up the leg of his boxers, exposing his thigh. There was a knife on the bed beside him, and a clean length of bandage. Both of these objects were illuminated by the artificial glow of street lamps coming in though the window, giving them ghostly halos against the dark bedclothes.

The rubber band trick wasn't working too well anymore. It had started losing effectiveness days ago, and now it barely did anything to keep the distraction and the ghastly white noise at bay. The Call was getting stronger. It made Ed's skin crawl, made him want to run from his dorm, screaming, and never come back. It kept him awake at night. It turned his stomach. He had to make it stop.

He lifted the knife and rested the sharp edge against his leg.

The rubber band wasn't enough now. That was just a little pain. Surely, if he just inflicted a _little_ _more_ pain... _surely_ it would work even better...?

He pressed the knife down against his skin, but hesitated to cut. He didn't want to do it. He did not enjoy the thought of causing himself pain, and his insides clenched in anticipation of it. But it would help. He knew it would make him think more clearly, and keep that incomprehensible Call away for just a bit longer...

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the first slice.

The phone on the bedside table behind him loosed a shrill ring. He jumped, startled as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. He swallowed and shook himself, his shaking knife moving away from his leg as he reached over with his other hand to answer the phone.

"Yeah? What?" he demanded into the receiver, trying to sound irritated in an attempt to disguise his queasy anxiousness.

"_Fullmetal_." It was Mustang. "_I'm calling another meeting tomorrow, at Headquarters. I have some news. Not great news. Well, kinda. Maybe. It's news. Just news. And some other stuff that might help_."

To Ed's ears, the Colonel sounded almost unnaturally awake compared to how lost and disjointed he felt. He was speaking very quickly and had an odd, strained inflection to his voice, like a fidgety child. "What... what kind of news?" Ed managed to grate out after a moment.

"_I'll tell you tomorrow. It's important. And unfortunate. Kind of frightening, really. But also helpful. Parts of it, at least. But it's all important, so you need to be there._"

Ed massaged his brow, trying to follow the colonel's rapid-fire words. "...Why don't you just tell me now?"

"_Because I want you at the meeting. Don't be late. Nine o'clock. Okay? Okay. Bye_."

And then he hung up without waiting for an answer.

Ed placed the phone back on the hook slowly, his tired, unfocused mind still processing what Mustang had been saying. What the hell did all that mean?

He sat back a little, alone-but-not-alone in the darkness and silence of the room.

What had he been doing before the phone rang? He'd already forgotten. That static feeling, the voiceless Call flooded his brain with incomprehensible noise and thoughts.

He turned his head and saw the glinting steel in his other hand and remembered.

"Oh," he said aloud. Purposefully not giving himself any more time to think about it, Ed raised the blade and drew it in a rapid, frantic line across his leg. He swore and gritted his teeth as he felt the deep sting of his splitting flesh.

And then, reveling in the quiet euphoria of his regained clarity and the renewed focus in his watering eyes, he took a deep, uncertain breath and watched his blood seep from the gash. It spilled down his pale thigh in thick lines, the red looking black in the failing light.

Al sat in his corner silently and did nothing.


	4. Stimulus

This was getting ridiculous.

Now that a week had passed and the horror of everything that was going on had died down to a nervous simmer, Maes was—to be perfectly frank—getting deeply irritated.

He wasn't annoyed with the alchemists... No, surely not. This wasn't their fault at all. They were victims of some unnamable evil and were just trying to keep their lives from falling apart. And Maes couldn't say that his irritation was caused by his fellow military men, either. They were doing the best they could.

The whole country was pretty much aware of the alchemist situation by now, and everywhere Maes ran into worried civilians—many of whom with alchemist family members—just wanting to know what was going on and what was being done to fix the problem. Unfortunately for everybody, _no one_ _knew_ what was wrong. _No one_ _knew_ how to fix it.

But in spite of their constant, urgent questions that Maes just didn't know how to answer, even these people were not the source of his ire. The problem was the press.

It was always the damn press.

Maes knew that when he'd been promoted to the head of Investigations that he'd have to deal with the press on a fairly regular basis... But what he hadn't really anticipated, even though he'd been warned about it time and again by his superiors-and even by the Fuhrer himself-was how tenacious those reporters were. They just didn't know the meaning of the phrase, "Okay, that's enough." They were everywhere. Even just now, as he was leaving his office—just to go outside and run into the next building over where the meeting was being held—they had swarmed him at the door, each of them shouting questions over each other, their damnedable pens scratching away at their notepads. They were like a cloud of mosquitoes, each one vying to suck some information out of him.

He knew it was because he was tired, and worried about the alchemists, and stressed over all of the extra work this whole damn thing had given him... but, he swore to any god who was listening, if one more reporter stopped to question him this morning, he was going to blow his fucking lid. There are only so many ways a man can say, "I don't know," and he had already said them all.

He steadied himself with a deep breath and continued down the hallway to the conference room. This room wasn't as grand than the larger meeting hall where everyone had met a few days ago, but it didn't need to be; fewer people had been invited to this gathering. Most of the State Alchemists, of course, would be in attendance, but their subordinate chaperones were not permitted into the room. Mustang had called this meeting himself, and had made an express wish to keep it private and exclusive. In fact, Bradley, Generals Grumman and Hakuro, and Maes himself were the only non-alchemists that would be present. Whatever Mustang was planning to say, he didn't want it widely known.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes."

Ah, speak of the devil...

Maes turned to see Roy striding toward him. "Good morning, Colonel Mustang. You're looking..." He trailed off. He had been about to say, "You're looking well this morning," because at first glance, Roy did look good. His eyes were bright and he looked very alert and in control of himself, in a way that he had not the last time Maes had seen him. And while it was good that he looked bright and focused... there was something about him that didn't quite sit well with Maes. He couldn't really place it, but he certainly didn't like it.

"...You're looking... alert... this morning," he finished, lamely.

"And you're looking bewildered this morning," Roy quipped, flashing a smile that was just slightly too wide.

"Perhaps I am a little bewildered," he replied, eyeing him. Roy stared back, something about his eyes just not looking right. Maes tried to shrug it off. "I guess that rubber band thing is working out for you? You do seem a lot less lethargic and distracted. The other alchemists I've seen lately seem to be getting worse, but you look... okay. What's different?"

Roy grinned again, though it decidedly was not a happy sort of grin, and patted Maes on the shoulder. "I'll talk about it in the meeting. I have a lot to discuss at the meeting. I have some ideas. Some people won't like them and I'm probably taking a huge risk with my career, but you have to do what you have to do, right? You know what I mean?"

Maes narrowed his eyes at him, not liking the jumbled, rapid way that Roy was speaking. It took him several seconds of silently looking at his comrade, but then he realized what it was about his eyes that had struck him so oddly. It had been hard to see when he was further away because his eyes were so naturally dark, but now that he was standing closer it was hard to ignore.

"Your pupils are dilated to the size of dinner plates," Maes informed him slowly, not sure whether or not he should be worried about it. "They're _huge_."

"Oh, are they? Strange."

Maes started to speak again, but didn't quite know how to word what he wanted to say. But then, with mind swirling in bemused shock, he said:

"...Roy Mustang, are you high?"

That wide, creepy smile found its way back onto Roy's face. "I _said_... I'll talk about it in the meeting." He paused a moment, then lifted his hand and put it to the side of his neck. "Damn, my heart is going _a mile a minute_," he said excitedly. He grabbed Maes' hand and pressed it against his carotid artery. "_Feel_ this!"

Roy's heart throbbed hard against Maes' fingers, hammering as if he'd just run a marathon. He _was_ high. He had to be on some kind of stimulant for his heart to be beating that fast.

Maes' jaw dropped.

Oh god.

Roy was high as a goddamn kite... in Central HQ... about to lead a meeting with the _Fuhrer_ of all people.

Nothing about this could end well.

"What the _hell _is wrong with you?" Maes hissed when his startled brain remembered how to function. He grabbed Roy by the arm. "You have to conduct a meeting in less than ten minutes! You think Bradley isn't going to notice? Are you _insane_?"

"Hey, hey. How do you _know_ I'm on anything? Maybe I just had a lot of coffee this morning. And all last night. Like, _a lot_ of coffee."

"Last _night_? Is that how long you've been like this?" Maes asked in horror. Come to think of it, Roy had sounded very clipped and odd over the phone when he'd invited Maes to the meeting the previous evening... did that mean he had essentially been on a bender since yesterday? And if Roy's heart had been beating this hard and fast all night...

"Maes, really. I appreciate your concern, but I know what I'm doing," Roy tried to soothe him, forcing his tone to be softer and more serious. He looked at his friend, and the confidence that flowed off of him was almost—_almost_—convincing. "I'm being very careful, and I have a good reason for this."

"What are you on?" Maes asked again, knowing that, of _course_ Roy must have a good reason for it. Colonel Mustang was just not the kind of person to do something so brash without some very deep thought and a long bout of researching and weighing pros and cons. But still, Maes didn't have to like it.

"Cocaine," he said finally, not sounding guilty in the slightest.

"Oh my _god_, Roy..."

"It's fine," Roy assured him, holding up his hands defensively. Now that he was purposefully speaking more slowly, he almost sounded normal. "I told you, I'm being careful. I'm taking very specific doses at very specific times. I know how to handle myself."

"You could die," Maes argued back, incensed and, for some reason, sad for his friend. "Cocaine is nothing to mess with. You could have a heart attack or stop breathing or—"

"It's _helping_," Roy interrupted him.

"Enough to risk your health over?"

Roy sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, actually. It's... Okay, I know how bad this looks, but it's worth it. For now. I don't intend to keep using it forever. I'll stop when I need to. I told you; I know what I'm doing..." He trailed off, then licked his lips nervously before continuing. "You can't imagine what this Call, this... _thing_ feels like. I feel like it's under my skin, Maes. It's in my head and in my bones. Anything... _anything_ that can shut it up for a while is worth the risk. You can't possibly understand..."

He stopped and cleared his throat, something dark flickering behind his gaze for just a split second. "And this makes it quiet. I can _think_ now, Maes. I felt like I was losing my mind, and this is helping me get it back. I have work to do. I have all of my cohorts depending on me to fix this, and I can't _fix it_ if I can't _think_."

Maes rubbed his face, once again reminding himself that Roy wouldn't be putting his life and his job at stake for something so crass as an illegal drug if it weren't for that fact that he was utterly convinced it was what was needed to be done.

"Just... just be careful, Roy. Don't take any more today."

"I won't. After the meeting, I'm fully prepared to lock myself in my room and wait to come down. I was dosing all night, so the comedown is probably going to be awful..." he grimaced, but then shrugged and smiled again. "I suppose I should enjoy the feeling while it lasts then."

Maes made a face and Roy laughed.

"What, I can't enjoy myself?"

"You shouldn't."

"But if I'm intoxicated anyway, what's the harm in finding pleasure in it?" He took a deep, cheerful breath, that tweaked mania returning to him now that he was done being serious. "If I were ever of a mind to take drugs recreationally—which I never would be—I think cocaine would be my tool of choice. This is actually very pleasant. And think of all the work I'd get done! I'd have energy to last for days!"

Maes made a face at him again, knowing that he was trying to be funny to lighten the dour mood in the hallway, but he was honestly too upset to try and take this lightly. Surely Fuhrer Bradley would put a stop to this madness when Roy proposed that his fellow alchemists start using cocaine—because, Maes realized, that was exactly what Roy was intending to do. But Bradley couldn't possibly stand for this, right?

"Good morning, gentlemen."

A voice from behind them pulled Maes from his thoughts. Recognizing the voice immediately, both he and Roy turned and stood at attention as they saw the Fuhrer and General Hakuro approaching them.

_Once again_, Maes thought, _speak of the devil_.

"At ease," Bradley waved at them both, but he was looking at Mustang specifically. "With all the events that are going on with you alchemists right now, the last thing I expect from you is formality."

"That is very understanding of you, sir," Roy bowed in thanks.

"You and your comrades are among my most prized men. It is very important to me that we get to the bottom of this phenomenon and put a stop to it. State Alchemists have helped me build up this country, and I would not lose you for the world."

Something about the way Bradley said that last part stabbed into Maes like a knife. The words sounded as if they were meant to be endearing, but from the way Roy stiffened beside him, he knew that the words had struck him the same way.

Bradley's Alchemists were tools of the State. They always had been; they always would be. The way Bradley had spoken, an outsider might have interpreted the words as, "Take it easy, because I'm worried about you, Roy," but what he was really saying was, "Take it easy, because I'm not done using you, Colonel."

Maes' heart sank, because in that moment he realized that not only was Bradley going to allow Roy to continue with the cocaine use if it meant he was more able to function... but he was likely going to encourage the other alchemists to do it as well.

And Maes was right. The meeting began exactly as he had feared. Roy confessed right off the bat that he was under the influence of an illegal stimulant and reported that its effects were keeping these mind-fogging demons at bay. Many of the alchemists present perked up to hear this, in spite of the obvious dangers this method posed. Maes could see that most of them were wearing bands around their wrists and the surrounding flesh was battered and bruised from constant snapping. Many of them had been complaining over the past few days that, while the stinging pain helped somewhat, the small relief it offered them was becoming less and less each day. Just by looking at them, Maes could see how desperate they were to get their focus back. They were so desperate that even something so horrible as cocaine sounded appealing. Roy was not the only one of them who had sunk this low in his desperation.

There were a few alchemists at the meeting, however, who argued against Mustang's proposal.

"Are you _insane_?" another alchemist said, re-voicing Maes' exact words to Roy. She was an older woman with curly gray hair and a tense face, who Maes knew Roy had a rocky relationship with. "Are you really suggesting this?"

"It works, Major Gates," Roy countered calmly, quietly reminding her of her rank, "I know it isn't ideal, but it's something. It's more effective than the pain stimulus."

"Yes, but for how long? If the pain stimulus was only effective for a few days, how long before you are going to have to up the ante and take some other, more powerful drug? What's the next step, Mustang? Meth?"

"...I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

"When you come to it? What are you—?"

"Colonel Mustang has made a choice to use what works best for him," Bradley interrupted, and Gates immediately fell silent. "I cannot and _will not_ force you—any of you—to use the same method. It's an option. That's all. Granted, it isn't ideal and I can't believe I'm condoning this... but Mustang has proven that it works, and I can't in good conscience deny you the chance to become functional again if you are willing to take the risk to your health for the sake of your country."

Maes' skin crawled. No, Bradley wasn't actively forcing them to take cocaine... but, ever the master of words, he did insinuate that if they truly loved their country, they would do it on their own, without needing to be ordered.

Sometimes—only sometimes—Maes truly hated the leader of Amestris.

"Thank you, sir," Roy said with a small bow. "The drug is an aid, but do not take it without careful thought..." He trailed off a little, taking a moment to fix his gaze on his fellow alchemists. His eyes lingered on Ed for a moment, then he looked away and continued, "However, this was not my main reason for calling this meeting. I have been researching since we last met. Most of my days have been spent in Central Library, studying old alchemy theories and histories..."

"Have you found something, sir?" Major Armstrong asked, his great shoulders straightening a bit as he sat more upright in his chair.

"...Possibly," he answered, sounding almost hesitant. "I hope so, at least. I still have more research to do, but I've stumbled upon something potentially useful."

He paused, then said, "I think this has happened before. A long time ago."

"How can that be possible?" Gates spoke up again. "You've seen this written down in Central Library?"

"Not precisely. There is nothing _directly_ stating that this has happened before, but there are old newspapers from the mid-1700's that report happenings similar to what is going on now. Alchemists going missing. Alchemists falling into stupors. Alchemists raving in the streets... But there is very little information, just scraps of articles here and there, all of them in the time span of about two weeks. There weren't very many of us back then, and those of us who were openly practicing alchemy were often seen as heathen or insane to begin with, so it's not a huge amount to go off of... but it's a lead, and I intend to follow it."

"...That's it? That's all you have for us? A _maybe_?" Gates spat. Maes looked at her, shocked by her increasing insubordination. She worked across from Maes' department and she always seemed like a good, hard-working soldier to him and she had always shown him proper respect after his promotion. As he was looking at her now, though, he could see how the stress of this was getting to her. Her eyes were red and her hands were clenched on her lap anxiously. She, like all of the other alchemists, was perched on a very precarious ledge.

"And what do you have?" Roy spat back, her anger becoming infectious to his altered state. "_Nothing_."

"It's something to start with," Armstrong cut in, trying to pacify them both and derail the shouting match that everyone in the room could feel coming. He turned to Roy. "I will do anything you ask of me to help you in your research," he said sincerely. But then he paused and continued, hesitantly, "But I will not use cocaine."

"Neither will I," Ed piped up, looking disgusted at the thought. Maes glanced over at him and frowned. Was it just the lighting, or was he a little paler than usual?

"That's fine, Alex. I completely understand," Roy told Armstrong, then turned to Ed. "As for you, I wouldn't let you use it even if you _wanted_ to, Edward Elric."

And, for whatever reason, Maes' heart swelled to hear those words. Maybe Roy really did know what he was doing. If he were truly in this too deep, he would not have hesitated to encourage Ed into drug use as he was gently encouraging the others. When it came to Ed, he was backing off a little. As much as it would likely help his cause to have an alchemist as brilliant as Ed at his side under the thought-clearing influence of cocaine, he would not bring himself to that.

The meeting closed not too long after that. Those of the alchemists who wanted to try the cocaine were given the contact information of Roy's supplier, and those who chose to abstain went back to the barracks. None of them were much use to their respective offices at this point, so very few of them had reported to work in the past several days and they simply ensconced themselves in their rooms and waited for their men to check up on them or tell them when another meeting had been called.

Maes wondered how much longer this would go on before they all truly began to lose their collective sanity, caged as they were in their rooms, without even the balm of clear and pleasant thoughts to keep them company through their long, sleepless nights.

Roy and Armstrong discussed research plans quietly outside of the building and Maes stood for a while with Edward, his eyes darting around for any sign of the press. They were nowhere to be seen at the moment, but over the past few days of being constantly harassed, it was hard for Maes to feel any sense of ease when there was the chance that they could be lurking around the building.

"How are you holding up, kid?" Maes made himself ask his small companion, finally convincing himself that they weren't about to be ambushed by flashing cameras.

Ed shrugged, one hand in his pocket. He grimaced, then sneered toward Mustang's back. "At least I'm not on drugs."

It was kind of refreshing that a teenaged boy was so morally against drug use. Maes knew that both of the Elric boys had very high morals, but it was still nice to hear those firm beliefs reiterated.

"The rubber bands are still working okay for you, then? I don't think I saw you snapping it at all during the meeting..."

"Oh, no. I haven't been doing that for days," he said, taking his hand from his pocket and looking down at it. "Aw, crap..."

His fingers were streaked with blood.

"What the hell is that? Are you bleeding?" Maes asked in confused alarm.

"Yeah, a little. I cut my leg. Must be bleeding through the bandage."

"Cut your leg? How did you manage that?" he asked, wondering what Ed could have possibly been doing in the confines of his barrack that could lead him to accidentally slicing his leg open badly enough to bleed through a bandage and then through the fabric of his pocket.

Ed looked up at him strangely, as if he thought that was a ridiculous question. "With a knife."

Maes stared at him, and that moralistic refreshment he'd gotten from Ed quickly dissipated with a sick jolt.

"You cut yourself on purpose?" The realization made him sick.

"Well, yeah. I just stick my hand in my pocket and put pressure on the wound when I'm getting foggy. It does work much better than the band, and—"

"Don't. Don't _ever_ do that again, Edward."

"What? Why? It helps and—"

Maes took him by the shoulders and leaned down to look him in the eye. He wanted so badly to just grab him and hug him, but he resisted the urge.

"Just don't. Find another way. It is _not okay_ for you to cut yourself. That is a dangerous road to go down."

"Yeah, but—"

"_No_, Edward. I'm not going to discuss it with you. Just find. Another. Way. What you're doing is just as bad as the cocaine if you're depending on it too much, and it can be just as addicting."

"...Fine," he answered finally. He looked as if he didn't fully understand Maes' worry, but was too tired to argue further.

"Good," Maes said, for some reason deeply shaken. "Come on, I'll take you back to the dorm and help you re-bandage your leg."

He turned to give Roy a departing wave over his shoulder, but both he and Armstrong were nowhere to be seen.

* * *

><p>It was becoming increasingly apparent that something very strange was going on.<p>

Bradley stood erectly, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, and tried very hard not to look as uncomfortably ill as he was.

Envy was skulking somewhere to his left. Bradley could hear him pacing and bitching under his breath. Lust was in the corner with Gluttony. Gluttony was pacing, too, his typically blank face now furrowed with anxiety, but Lust was just standing there with her narrow back against a pipe, looking about as ill as Bradley felt.

Pride was around somewhere too, sticking to the shadows as he often did when they all came to visit Father. Bradley could sense him slithering around in the dark, fidgeting, waiting for _something_.

"What the fuck is going on?" Envy finally exploded, shooting Father his manic glare as he shouted the words that none of the other Homunculi had yet gathered the courage to ask. The lanky Homunculus had dark circles under his eyes and looked even paler than was typical for him, which was saying something.

Bradley wasn't the only one who was feeling odd, if he were to judge by Envy's outburst. All of his Homunculi brethren were feeling just as off as he was. He didn't even have to ask them, he could tell by looking at them that none of them felt well. That slight twinge of a headache he'd been having over the past couple of days had now blossomed into a truly distracting pressure that pounded itself against his temples. Even more bothersome than that was the nausea that still turned his stomach.

That morning, it had gotten so bad that he'd actually vomited.

Never... not even once... had Bradley ever vomited since his transformation into Wrath. Not in this entire immortal existence. That, more than anything, was what had spurred him to call this impromptu meeting with Father and his siblings. Something was wrong with them, and he had no doubt that it was related to the mysterious affliction of the alchemists. The alchemists had felt the wrongness first and most strongly, but now Bradley could not ignore that it was affecting all of the Homunculi as well. There was an anxiety in his breast that he'd never felt before and a kind of lostness, as if something was altering the flow of the Universe, as if something huge was about to happen.

He swallowed, willing himself not to shudder.

"Well?" Envy pressed again. His voice, which Bradley had always thought was rather seductive and lovely—in spite of its roughness—for a creature who usually expressed himself as male, sounded very strained and lacked its usual sardonic silkiness. "We want some answers, old man! Something is going on and I've had _enough_!"

When Father still didn't answer, just remained silent on his powerful throne and quietly observed them all, Envy made a harsh, frustrated sound and a ripple of dark green shot through his body, as if he was fighting the urge to transform and throw a massive tantrum.

"You don't even _know_, do you?" Envy challenged, daring to get right up in Father's face to shout at him. Clearly, the inexplicable discomfort that was plaguing them all was wearing him quite thin. "You don't have a _fucking clue_! You just..."

But then he stopped, and the sudden softening of his face hinted that something had just occurred to him. Something unpleasant. Bradley looked at Father, saw the expression he wore on his own face, and felt the same realization stab into him as sharply as a blade.

What all of them in the room—even slow, simple Gluttony—realized in that instant was that Envy was absolutely right:

Father _didn't know_ what was happening.

And more than that... the thing that made Envy step back, his violet eyes wide and those dark circles looking even more pronounced than they had just a moment ago... not only was their all-knowing Father just as in the dark as the rest of them...

He was afraid.

* * *

><p>Seig held his wife down against the mattress, as he had done far too many times in the past few days, just trying to keep her still as she screamed and fought against him.<p>

He spoke to her lovingly, doing everything in his power to reach her, but she was just too sick. They were saying on the radio that other alchemists around the country were also falling ill. Edward had even called yesterday to see how Izumi was doing. Ed never called. He had sounded frightened.

Her fever had spiked again and most of what she said made no sense. She had to leave, she kept saying. It was calling her. She had to go.

It had been three days since he had been able to get her to sleep. In that time Seig and Mason had taken turns watching her and trying to comfort her... but the best they could do was speak to her gently and hold her down on the bed to keep her from ripping out the IVs that they had finally decided was the only way they were going to be able to keep her hydrated.

Still, her writhing and infrequent crying were far more preferable to him than those long silences in between her fits. Sometimes she would just stare at the ceiling for hours, her lips parted and sweaty brow furrowed as if she was listening to something. During those times, no matter how much he shook her or called her name, she never responded. It was as if she were comatose, or so close to death that nothing could reach her.

Perhaps this alchemic meltdown being felt all over the country was bringing an end to the long and sporadic sickness that had been slowly taking its toll on her for years. Maybe this was finally the end that Seig had secretly been preparing himself for since that terrible night when she had tried to resurrect their child.

He closed his eyes and bent over her to rest his brow against hers.

"_Have... to... have to go..._" she croaked.

* * *

><p>Roy lay awake—so very, impossibly awake—his eyes open and staring upward, memorizing the cracks in his ceiling.<p>

It had been a several days since he'd started using the cocaine. For the first few days he had been very, very careful. He had measured his doses precisely and had timed when to take them, down to the very minute. He took what he needed to function—to complete a project or hold a meeting, for example—and then abstained for the rest of the day and let himself come down from the high as gently as he could. He would write a note to his future, cloudy-minded self and set it next to his alarm clock. The note simply read, "Take your medicine" to remind himself of what he needed to do when the alarm went off. This had worked beautifully at first.

But now...

In even just this short time, he was needing to take higher and higher doses to block out that beckoning Call at the back of his mind. The Call was too much to bear now, even if it was just for a few hours. As the days passed, it was getting more and more terrible to withstand that unknowable urge without the blessed barrier of the drug.

And so each day—and of course he _knew_ the danger—he took just a little bit more than his calculated dosage. Just a little. But then the comedowns got harder, and that whispering in his brain was overwhelming... and he took more. And when the drug in his system started to wane, he simply took another hit. And another. Because he couldn't think without it. He couldn't sleep anyway and he was just so exhausted. Even the bed beneath him, which he usually found moderately comfortable, felt hard and unwelcoming. But the drug energized him. It kept him focused on the dozens of books and hundreds of newspaper articles that he was trying to read through, searching for answers. He couldn't afford to stop and let the drug work its way out of his system. Not now.

It kept those thoughts and feelings and voices at bay for just a little longer. And he had to—he _had_ to—find an answer to what was going on. He had to save them all from the insanity that Roy could feel tugging at the edges of his soul as he stared wide-eyed at the dark ceiling above him. They were depending on him. All of his peers and all of those other alchemists across the country _needed_ him. He could not fail.

It had been two days.

Two days and five hours since he had last allowed himself to fully come down.

He closed his eyes tightly against the darkness of the barrack room.

But now he was out of his hellish white powder. He was out, and would not be able to get more until the following morning, hopefully before the HQ meeting that had been called that day. He had lost track of his consumption rate and had gone through his supply much more quickly than he had intended to.

He had used it up quickly. Far, _far_ too quickly. _Too much, too quickly. Not enough, not enough._

It had only been a few hours since his final, paltry hit, and he was already starting to crash. Hard. Way harder than he ever had before, when he'd been being careful. He had just been taking too much, and the sudden absence of the drug was almost unbearable.

He felt like he was going to die.

His head ached as if it was pulling itself apart and would split open at any moment, emptying the contents of his skull onto his pillow in a wet gush. He was suddenly hungrier than he had been in days, but the headache made his empty stomach clench with nausea and all he wanted to do was lay in bed and try to sleep.

But sleep would not come. It hadn't come for days and likely would not come tonight, either.

Before, he hadn't needed sleep. Hadn't wanted it. He'd spent his time researching, looking through countless texts for proof that this whole damn clusterfuck had occurred before, and with the energy the drug gifted him with he had been able to go for hours and hours without stopping. But now, as he was coming down, the exhaustion was catching up with him and making him feel so tired that he was sick with it.

But, still, sleep would not come. Slumber was the only comfort that he could give his poor withdrawal-wracked body... and it _would not come_.

And worse... far worse than the sickness that this crash was giving him... was the Call. Always, always, the Call had been in the back of his mind over the past few days, but the cocaine had made it quieter, almost silent. Now it reached for him again, digging into him with long, cold fingers.

Roy dug his own fingers into the sheet beneath him, terror making his heart beat so hard that it hurt his chest and made his breathing unsteady. His strained, frantic panting was the only sound in the room... oh, but Roy could hear so much more than that.

It was talking to him. It was always talking, whispering, laughing, screeching, doing it all at once in a constant cacophony of mind-raking white noise that wasn't really a sound at all. But it was so much louder now, louder than it had been days ago when all of this first started, when the alchemists all started to lose their minds.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? It was madness. Insanity. They were all losing their minds to this voice-without-a-voice, this presence, this feeling, this Call. It would consume them all. Roy could feel it inundating him, every cell of him, possessing him and completely owning him. It wanted something from him. It was waiting for him to act, it's non-eyes focused on him. _On him specifically_.

"What do you want me to do?" he breathed to the darkness.

And the darkness answered him, but, as always, he did not understand what it was saying.


	5. Earthquakes

Maes' heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Roy. Maes hadn't seen him face-to-face since the last meeting several days ago. He had looked awful then, but now...

He didn't even look alive. He looked like a doll being manipulated by an invisible puppeteer.

He was wired, that was for sure. Maes could tell by the quick, spastic way that he glanced at everything around him as he walked. He looked twitchy, like a rabbit that smells the approach of a wild dog. He didn't look frightened, though. He looked _angry_.

His obvious drug use was upsetting, but Maes wasn't exactly surprised. He just swallowed back his worry and decided not to say anything. Hawkeye was walking a pace or so behind him, and Maes could plainly see that she felt his sentiments.

Roy stormed past Maes and into the meeting hall without even acknowledging him. Maes almost turned to follow him but, as worried as he was... he didn't really want to speak to him. Not now, when he was so obviously strung out and not even trying to hide it.

"He dosed himself in the car."

Maes turned to look at Hawkeye. Her tired eyes were still on her superior's back as he disappeared into the conference room.

"He... he took a hit _in front of you_?" Maes asked, appalled.

She nodded slowly, turning her head to look at him. "He'd been out of it since yesterday afternoon. We had to go... pick some up. He asked me to drive him to skid row this morning before the meeting. So I did. He bought what he needed, got into the back of the car, and snorted his line without saying a word about it. That's why he's so wired; it's barely been twenty minutes since he hit." She cleared her throat and shook herself, clearly upset. "I think he took more than he was supposed to... but I can't really tell. I don't know much about cocaine."

"You didn't have to stand for that, even if he is your superior," Maes bristled. "You should have said something."

"I did say something. That's why he's angry." She ran a hand across her brow, radiating worried fatigue. "How far is this going to go, Lieutenant Colonel? When will enough truly be enough?"

Maes swallowed. "I don't know."

It was getting bad with Roy. His temper had always been prone to angry flares, but that tendency had increased tenfold over the past few days. Maes could scarcely speak with him on the phone anymore. He'd been trying to call at least once a day to see how he was doing, but it was so easy to frustrate and anger Roy these days that Maes almost didn't want to continue calling him.

They were all worried. Maes wondered if Hawkeye was filling the rest of Mustang's staff in on their beloved commander's wellbeing. They were all still at Eastern HQ, holding down the fort until he and Hawkeye got back. Maes was fairly certain she was keeping them informed somewhat, but somehow he doubted that she told them about the drug use. They didn't need to know, and it would only make them worry more and doubt their commander's judgment. Maes could see that Hawkeye herself was beginning to doubt, and the last thing she needed was more of Mustang's subordinates encouraging those dark feelings within her.

Roy was losing control. Maes knew it. Hawkeye knew it. Roy most likely knew it, too, but he was in too deep to stop now. At least, that was his excuse and Maes honestly couldn't tell at this point whether or not he was wrong.

Maes looked down at Hawkeye and desperately wanted to say something comforting to her, but he didn't have the heart to lie. And so, after giving him a quiet salute, she turned and went back to the company car to wait for the meeting to conclude and Maes followed Mustang's departure into the building.

There were even fewer alchemists who showed up this time. More alchemists were missing. Others simply hadn't bothered to show. Others still were dead.

In the past four days, twelve alchemists from all over Amestris—some military, some civilian—had been found dead. And then just last night, three more had been reported as dead by their families. Most of them, Maes' investigations had concluded, appeared to be suicide.

It was becoming very apparent to all the non-alchemists that when Ed and Mustang had tried to explain that they would do just about anything to block this Call, they hadn't been exaggerating. It was hard to ignore the depth of this torture for them when so many of their number had chosen to end their lives over it rather than wait to see what fruit Mustang's research bore.

Maes took a chair next to Ed and rubbed his brow. He didn't bother asking Ed how he was, though he did give him a quick glance that showed him enough to twist his insides into even tighter knots of anxiety. He _knew_ how Ed was. He didn't have to ask. He knew how they all were, and it wasn't good.

The alchemists who had actually managed to make it to the meeting were all on their last leg. Those who abstained from the cocaine were drained and in pain. There was no hope left in their eyes and even Edward, that little spitfire, looked younger and more defeated than Maes had ever seen him. His cheeks and eyes were sunken from not eating or sleeping, and his hair was in need of a good washing. He looked like a vagabond who had been wandering the streets for days. At least he didn't appear to still be cutting himself—as far at Maes could tell, at least. Even if the cutting worked better than the band, that was not a path that Maes ever wanted to see Edward go down. Especially not when, as in Roy's case, the method of blocking the Call had the risk of becoming an addiction.

Because Maes didn't think that Roy was addicted to the cocaine _per se_. No, Roy was just desperate to keep the Call away. That was his addiction: the silence and mental control it gave him. To Maes, that seemed far more dangerous a habit, because it was an entirely understandable one.

And then there were the rest of the alchemists—the others who had decided to alleviate their ills with the cocaine—and their appearances were even more disturbing than Ed's. Like Roy, they all had that twitchy, frantic air about them and looked more like animated corpses than living people. They were almost frightening to look at, like mad demons from a fairytale... and Roy was one of them. And not only was he one of them, he was their ringleader: the sad and horrifying Demon King.

Roy pulled a stack of files from his briefcase and slammed them down on the table. His ire was still volatile, it seemed. Armstrong stood beside him and they exchanged a few quiet words, though Roy was speaking very tightly and looked ready to blow up at any moment. Still, having another alchemist near him, one who fully understood what he was going through, seemed to soothe him even if only a little.

"We're going to keep this brief today, Colonel Mustang," Bradley rasped, interrupting them. Maes looked over at him. Bradley looked almost as bad as the alchemists. In all the years that Maes had worked for him, even during the war, the proud Fuhrer had never looked so overwhelmed or exhausted. Bradley was a man who was starting to get on in years, but never had he worn those years so heavily. He looked old and sick now, and it was shocking. "Unless you've found something more helpful than a few newspaper clippings," he continued wryly.

Roy bristled at the blame in his voice and almost—_almost_—lost it. It was frightening how close he suddenly came to rounding on the Fuhrer, but Armstrong put a firm hand on his shoulder, silently telling him to calm himself. After a moment, Roy took a deep breath and, still looking as if he wanted to kill someone, let it out and made himself speak softly to his superior.

"Then we might as well get started, sir," he agreed through clenched teeth. "I doubt any more of us are going to show up."

"Fine. What do you have for us?"

"Not much. But I do have more proof that this has happened before. Possibly even more than once in our history. There are also some strange seismic events—something akin to earthquakes, it seems—happening along the fault line, according to the university. They don't know what to make of it, but it can't just be a coincidence. The fault has been essentially dormant since around the same time that these other alchemic occurrences were taking place. There has to be some kind of a link between the two." Roy seemed to deflate a little and rubbed his face with his hand. "But we don't have much more than that... I'm sorry."

"It doesn't make sense," Major Gate whispered. She was sitting a couple of seats away from Maes, on Ed's side. There was another alchemist, Lieutenant Colonel Casey, sitting in between Ed and Gate. Both Maes and Ed leaned forward, looking past him to see Gate. That angry fire that had been in her during the last meeting was gone. Now, there only remained a sense of hopelessness and exhaustion. Like Ed, she had abstained from the drug. She still wore the rubber band around her ravaged wrist however, and it was painfully clear how much she had been using it. Blood was dripping from her fingertips from the pulpy wounds at her wrist, but she either didn't notice or didn't care. Her eyes were utterly dead. "It can't have happened before. We would know if it happened before," she continued, her voice so dazed and tired-sounding that Maes almost reached over to comfort her.

"Something this big doesn't just disappear," Casey spoke up from beside Gate, though his voice was much stronger and more agitated than hers. "And this _is_ big. And even if it's only affecting us alchemists... it would be in our texts _somewhere_. How do you explain that?"

"...I can't."

"Then what the fuck are you doing, Mustang? You're wasting time with goddamn newspapers and earthquakes! How does this help us? How does it fix what's going on? What are we going to do?"

"I don't _know_, alright?" Roy spat back, losing that frail tether on his temper again. "Any information we find could be the answer! We can't just stop searching because it isn't what you want to hear!"

The alchemists in the room shifted, whispering to one another, all of them feeling the sudden pressure in the hall. Ed fidgeted beside Maes and they exchanged a quick, uncertain glance as the man on Ed's other side stumbled to his feet.

"Parker killed himself!" Casey roared, standing to face Roy. "Major Johnson, Major Reed, Lieutenant Colonel Davis; all _dead_! They were my colleagues! My _friends_!"

"And I'm doing what I can to prevent more deaths! If this has happened before—"

"Who the fuck _cares_ if this has happened before? It's happening _now_!" Casey's voice cracked and, with the quick motion of a trained soldier, he reached down to his belt and withdrew his pistol. "And not all of us can wait for you to save us, Mustang."

Armstrong instinctively jumped in front of Roy as the gun went off, but as everyone soon realized in the sudden reeling chaos of the room, the Colonel was not the intended target.

The side of Casey's head burst open in the roar of gunfire, showering both Edward and Maes in a mist of blood and soft chunks of grey matter. The hand that had held his own gun to his head dropped back to his side and the pistol slipped from his bloody fingers.

Ed cried out as the body collapsed against him. Gates and Maes both rushed in to pull Casey's lifeless form off of the boy and lay it on the floor as the rest of the room broke into a panic. Some of the alchemists rushed up to gather around the corpse. Some of them even tried to resuscitate him, even though they all knew that he was already dead. Others fled the room entirely, too overcome by the lives of their fellows crumbling around them to witness the horror further.

Ed remained in his seat, recoiling back into it, his legs drawn up as if he was trying to keep himself as far away from the corpse as possible, but was still rooted to where he sat and did not have the presence of mind to get up and leave.

Maes grabbed him and led him away from the body and the grieving, scared alchemists encircling it.

They'd barely made it outside before Ed's legs gave out from under him. He hit his knees and threw up onto the concrete. Maes crouched behind him and, while he was distracted, quickly brushed bone fragments and globs of pulverized brain matter from the boy's shoulder's and hair and hoped with a heavy, frantic heart and sick stomach that he hadn't noticed them. He was absolutely covered in it.

Roy swept out of the building not too far behind them, Major Armstrong close at his heels. The colonel's dark eyes were wide and his face had gone an unearthly shade of grey-white.

"Were either of you injured?" he asked, looking between Maes and Ed.

"I wasn't," Maes answered shakily. He looked to Ed, one hand still on his shoulder as they knelt together. "You?"

"No," the boy whispered, the word so very quiet and despairing that it tore at Maes' heart. Blood dripped down the side Ed's cheek and Maes reached forward deftly to wipe it away with the cuff of his uniform.

Roy nodded to them both and ran a hand through his hair, his drugged jitteriness redoubling itself in the face of what had just happened. His hands were trembling.

"Lieutenant Colonel Casey..." Armstrong breathed from Roy's side, almost to himself, clearly reeling. "We were in combat together... he was unshakable, and so kind..." His gravelly voice hitched. "I just cannot believe that he—"

"_Stop_." The word came from Roy's lips as an imperious order, and Armstrong flinched to hear it. The major wrapped his massive arms around himself, shoulders quaking, and fell immediately silent.

Roy closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, then looked over at his fellow State Alchemist and friend, thinking. He regarded him calculatingly for a long time, his nervous short-temperedness deflating a little into a harsh, tightly wound kind of sadness. "Alex..." he began gravely, "Give me your gun."

Armstrong looked at him sharply, unfolding his arms. "Sir... you must know that I would _never_..."

"I know," he said, reaching down to his own gun belt and unfastening his weapon. He drew it out and, without looking at him, offered it to Maes. "Neither would I. In his right mind, Casey wouldn't have either." He swallowed. "But we are not in our right minds, Alex."

Slowly, Maes stood and took the gun that his friend was offering to him, the sick pit of his stomach fully understanding the gravity of what was happening, of the dark possibility that Roy was admitting existed in all of the alchemists right now. Armstrong's great shoulders sagged and, without a word, he drew his own gun and gave it to Maes as well.

With a heart so heavy that it made him ill, Maes turned back to Roy. "Your gloves, too," he rasped.

Roy closed his eyes very tightly for a moment, then rummaged in his pockets and produced his gloves. He held them in his hands silently, his glazed eyes taking in the red details of the transmutation circles stitched upon them, then handed them over. He did not meet Maes' eyes as he took them. Instead he turned and, with Armstrong following close behind, headed back toward where Hawkeye was waiting with the car.

* * *

><p>Edward sat, alone and silent, on the floor of the bathroom, his arms wrapped around his knees, his dull eyes staring at his red coat on the floor and the dark spatters that now stained it.<p>

It was all he could do to not think about the postage stamp sized piece of scalp—complete with blood-matted tresses of Casey's hair—that he had fallen out of the hood when he'd taken it off.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Edward? You okay, kid? You've been in there a while."

Water dripped from the shower head and hit the awaiting tub below, filling the small room with the soft and steady beat, beat, beat...

He leaned his back against the edge of the tub, the white porcelain still warm from the long, long shower he had just taken. He had scrubbed his skin and scalp until they were raw, frantically trying to cleanse himself of the blood and cerebral tissue that he had been covered in. It had taken him four washes to get it all out of his hair, and even after pieces of bone and meat ceased to rinse out with the soap he continued to wash himself again and again.

And yet, Edward still felt horrifically unclean.

"Ed?" Hughes tried again from the other side of the door.

Ed scarcely heard him. The hot shower had soothed his physical pains somewhat and the Call was flooding his mind again in the absence of that stimulus. He didn't even know how long he'd been in here, locked in with the cleansing steam, naked and alone and sick and terrified and...

That flood of white noise that had become so horrifyingly familiar over the past fortnight made itself heard again in Ed's head. The Call reached for him, summoning, demanding that he obey. It flooded into him, suddenly much stronger than it ever had been before, pulling at his soul.

Another round of loud rapping on the door made Ed jump a little and he blinked. He stared at what was in front of him for a moment in confusion, then his stomach clenched.

He didn't remember getting up from his half-curled seat against the side of the bathtub, nor did he remember striding forward the two paces to the door and placing his hand on the knob, but suddenly that's where he was.

He yanked his hand from the knob and staggered backwards away from it, bumping the backs of his legs into the tub and nearly falling into it. Shaking, he seated himself on the tub's white rim, his hands clasped between his knees, his head bent so that his wet hair hung forward in limp tendrils.

It was only a matter of time, he realized silently, before the Call took him. If Hughes hadn't been there to inadvertently set his mind back on track with the noise that he was making, how far would Ed have gone? Out of the room? Out of the building? Or would he have disappeared completely?

So many alchemists were going missing each day, pulled from their homes and families, all of them forced to follow the Call in one way or another. There was no stopping it. Even Mustang didn't know what to do, and he _always_ knew what to do. He was just as sick and tired as the rest of them... perhaps more so. Ed felt almost like he could sense Mustang. He could see him in his mind's eye, alone and exhausted, sitting at his desk in his room and knew—more than Hughes, more than Hawkeye even—how sick he really was.

Ed rested his brow in his hand, his eyes wandering down to the healing gash in his leg.

How many more days were they going to last? Two? Maybe three? Would the threat of the Call just become too much to bear by then? And, when it actually came down to it, would they let themselves be taken by it or would they choose Casey's path and end it before it could go any further...?

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, the Call thrumming in the back of his skull. He needed to increase his pain again. He hadn't done it since this morning, and it was about due for another turn. That's all he needed. He would feel better once his mind was clearer again. Carefully, Ed got to his feet again and stumbled over to the sink.

"Please, Ed..." Hughes' voice was low and deeply sad, "Just say something..."

It took a couple of tries to make his voice sound more reassuring than a dull, tired rasp. He cleared his throat as he opened the drawer under the sink and pulled something out. "I'm fine," he said. "Leave me alone."

Ed heard Hughes sigh quietly from the other side of the door. "Are you going to be okay if I leave for a while, then? I have to go back to the office and stop at home for a few things, but I'll be back."

"Whatever."

There was a brief, but unspeakably sad silence from Hughes. In the dark lull, Ed raised the screwdriver he'd pulled from the drawer and set the head of it to the screw securing his automail to his collarbone. The area around the screw was pink and swollen from Ed messing with it that morning, but now the pain was not enough for him. He needed more.

Edward took a breath and turned the screwdriver.

Agony shot through his chest and up his neck, blurring his vision and nearly buckling his knees. The grinding sound of the metal screw boring into his collarbone drowned out the Call completely for just a split second, and Ed would have laughed in relief if it had been possible for him to breathe in that instant. The screwdriver slipped from his fingers and landed with a muffled thud into his rumpled, blood-stained clothing on the floor. He clutched the sides of the sink to remain on his feet, head swimming.

"I'm staying here with you boys tonight," Hughes began again, his kind voice penetrating the fog of pain in Ed's brain. "What Casey did... it's okay to be upset about it. You probably don't want to talk about it, but if you do, I'll be here."

"Y-yeah. Sure," Ed managed when he could draw a breath. His head spun, dizzy with pain and an odd, relieved sort of pleasure. He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, purposefully averting his eyes from his own worn, almost-unfamiliar face and blearily eyed his clavicle, watching blood well up from under the metal and begin to ooze down his chest.

"...Winry is going to _kill_ me." He grinned darkly at himself.

"What was that?"

"No... Nothing Hughes. Just go. I'm fine."

Edward could hear his standing outside the door for a bit longer, uncertain, clearly not thinking that he should leave but needing to. Finally, he bid Ed a soft adieu and he could hear the man's footsteps fade and then disappear as he walked out the front door and snapped it shut.

* * *

><p>Linda Bogart stared.<p>

Since the discovery of the odd seismographic readings the previous week, she had been assigned as watcher over the ticker-tape of needle marks to see if they continued. Of course, they had. The seismograph kept swinging back and forth, back and forth in that mindless rhythm, creating great arcs usually only seen during earthquakes, but much slower.

As the days passed, the arc was swinging wider and wider, yet still no one could feel the earth moving beneath them. This was not an earthquake. It was something else. Something powerful. And now, today, the needle was dancing off the edge of the chart, the swing of the readings becoming too drastic to be encompassed by the ticker-paper that recorded the movements.

Never, in the history of the Central University Seizmology department, had this ever happened before. There were other strange things going on as well. The whole problem with the alchemists, for one... One of the State Alchemists, a Colonel Mustang, had been by a few times in the past week to speak to professors about the readings. Clearly, the man felt that the strange readings were somehow related to the ailment of his colleagues. He was adamant that there had to be a link somehow... and considering all of the craziness that was going on, it certainly seemed that he could be right.

But even more than that... Linda felt something. It was a pressure at the base of her skull, a dull little twinge that jangled her nerves and made her heart beat harder until she felt the sound of it filled the dim little lab she was in. She was alone in the room, just her and the equipment and that horrid tick-tick-ticking of the needle... but still, she heard something.

It was like a voice, but not a voice.

It spoke to her without words, incomprehensible, like a song played on the radio in another language, so garbled by static as to sound completely inhuman.

It gave her a headache.

* * *

><p>Major Alex Louis Armstrong sat at the desk in his barrack room. The workspace was really far too small for him, but he had been making do without complaint for many years.<p>

The room was scattered with books and articles taken from Central Library that he had been trying with all his might to study. Because things could not keep going as they were. It had to end. He and Mustang and the rest of the alchemists had to figure this out.

He was not studying now, though. In fact, he was not moving at all.

A book lay, forgotten, on the desk in front of him. The pages had not been turned in hours. Alex just stared at nothing. For hours and hours. The phone had rung at some point, then it had rung again, but Alex did not notice.

All he could see and feel were his fellow alchemists, some of them sitting in a daze as Alex was... others fighting the Call with everything they had, as Fullmetal and Mustang were. Others still were moving forward into the darkness, following the summons that had been reaching for them for days and days...

All he heard now was the Call.

All he knew was that, somehow, he had to answer it.


	6. Action and Reaction

_Click, click, click..._

He didn't even have to think about it anymore. It was habit now, just another part of his day.

_Click, click, click..._

Roy used the razor delicately, chopping the rock of cocaine into a fine powder. He was actually getting rather good at it. He would have laughed at the irony, but he didn't find it funny at all. What a loathsome vision he must be... a military officer—a State Alchemist, for fuck's sake—sitting alone in a badly-lit room, cutting lines of blow to sustain his growing habit.

Yes, he knew that it was developing into a habit. He wasn't an idiot. He didn't need Hawkeye or Hughes to remind him of it every time they saw him. He didn't need to be warned about the evils of cocaine, because, truthfully, he was already living them. And still, he also knew that of the possible evils laid out before him, this was the lesser of them. He _needed_ it to focus. In fact, it had been long enough since his last dose that the creeping feeling of the Call was already beginning to wash over him again. He was well past due for another hit. He clenched his jaw and continued powdering the rock.

He had a job to do. He had lives to save. He had to stop this before it went any further, before any more people died.

The memory of Lieutenant Colonel Casey's death that morning threw itself to the forefront of Roy's brain again, a red smear across his mind. He shuddered and swallowed the sick burn at the back of his throat. No. No one else could die over this. It had to _stop_.

Roy's suddenly trembling hand missed its mark and the razor bit into the tip of his left index finger. He hissed out an automatic curse, though the cut didn't really hurt much. The slice was deep, but the powdered cocaine that had been on the edge of the razor numbed the wound pretty effectively and the pain was mild. Blood welled up from between the split folds of skin and he watched it dribble down his hand to land in thick drops on his desk, the scarlet hue vibrant against the dusty white residue of the powder.

_We're all going to die._

The thought came unbidden, floating through his mind like a poisonous fog. He jumped a little at the abrupt fatalism of it and shook himself. Still shaking and his heart beginning to increase in tempo, he slowly put down the razor. Maybe he should let himself come down completely tonight. Last night had been rough, when he'd been forced to crash so hard due to a sudden lack of drug... he'd thought he was truly going insane by the time Hawkeye had come to pick him up this morning, as desperate and frantic as the Call had made him... But still... he didn't like the fatalistic place where his thoughts had been heading lately. It was one of the many reasons he'd given Maes his gun. Perhaps it was a sign that he just needed to quit. Maybe he needed to give the pain treatment another try. Perhaps that would cleanse the shadows of futility from his thoughts.

But...

Maybe they _were_ all going to die. Slowly. One by one, they'd all put a bullet to their own heads, because that was the only way out. Maybe no amount of research, or cocaine, or self-sacrifice, or just fucking _trying_ to fix everyone was going to change one goddamned thing. Maybe he just needed to stop fighting. Maybe he just needed to back down and let it happen. Yes. Just let it happen. Just... let it...

Roy sat upright, blinking.

The sky beyond his window was darker than it had been mere seconds ago, casting his room in cool grays and blues. His finger had stopped bleeding and the cut was crusted with dried blood. It looked at least an hour old, and now it definitely hurt. Had he spaced out just then? He turned his bleary eyes down to his desk.

Well. Apparently he _had_ spaced out.

The wooden surface of his desk was adorned in smears of red and white. Transmutation circles and equations spiraled across the desk, hewn from his blood and the powdered cocaine. He stared down at his unconscious handiwork, quelling the rush of self-horror that was becoming all too common. The symbols stared back up at him, taunting him, a visual storm of chaos to accompany the soundtrack of the Call in his head.

_What do you want me to do?_

Roy's heart nearly started from his chest as the phone beside him rang. He grabbed for it, fumbling it clumsily before he was able to put it to his ear.

"M-Mustang here," he stammered, his voice choked and weak-sounding in spite of himself.

"_Hi... it's Hughes_. _Are you... doing okay? Tell me truthfully."_ There was a pause, and then,_ "You know you don't have to play the hero with me, Roy. Please._"

For a moment, Roy couldn't speak. His mind was still reeling and his eyes had wandered back to the drug-and-blood arrays in front of him. That heavy, fatalistic feeling found him again and stole his words. He closed his eyes to the mental vision of Casey's head bursting like a raw egg and felt a stinging wetness beneath his lids. The Call tugged at every part of him and, suddenly, it was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears.

"_Roy?_"

"...It's really good to hear your voice, Maes." It was the first sentence that popped into his head and so he said it, so softly and sincerely that he knew he must sound frighteningly pathetic and just didn't care. He just wanted someone to talk to. He needed something to distract him from the wordless whispering in his head. The two of them had been arguing bitterly over the past few days, to the point where Roy had nearly stopped picking up the phone entirely, not wanting to listen to Maes nag him about his behavior... but, god, now he wanted nothing more than to talk to him.

Maes was silent on the other end of the line, then:

"_Do you want me to come over?_" He sounded startled, even a little afraid. Roy almost laughed at him. Of course Maes was afraid... he'd already seen one alchemist take his own life today. Who was to say that such actions might not inspire an equal reaction in Roy? The tone of Maes' voice certainly suggested that such thoughts had occurred to him.

Roy swallowed, took a deep breath, and forced his voice to strengthen itself. "No. I'm fine. Just very tired and starting to have space outs again." He stopped and rubbed his eyes, dissipating the wet warmth that still remained there. "I'm crashing. I need to take another hit soon."

He looked back down at his desk and the piles of red-tinged powder. He would have taken another hit now if he hadn't ruined it all in a fit of unconscious madness. He hoped he had enough left to last him until tomorrow, at least...

"_I really wish you wouldn't_," Maes' voice was hesitant. "_You have to be blind to not see what it's doing to you..._"

"Not this again. Not now," Roy sighed, wanting to be angry with him for bringing it up again, but unable to muster the strength. "I don't have the energy for it, Maes. You know I can't stop."

"_Ed seems to do okay without it_..."

Roy sighed again, loudly and purposefully into the receiver, and Maes went quiet again. Silence passed between them on the phone lines.

"...How _is_ Ed?" Roy asked finally, the silence making him nervous. "He looked pretty freaked after the meeting."

It was more than that, though. It wasn't just how Ed had looked. And of course, he was probably just imagining it... but, somehow, Roy could almost swear that he _felt_ Ed. It was a distant but persistent worry at the back of his mind. It had been faint earlier, but now it was more apparent and...unpleasant. As if something was wrong. He tried to ignore it.

"_Yeah..._" Maes lamented, "_I think I'm going to stay with him tonight. I took him back to his dorm afterward so that he could get the blood off of him. He was in the bathroom for nearly two hours. He was still in there when I left. I stayed in the other room with Al for a bit while he showered. He was pretty hysterical_. _I think he's losing hope._"

"We all are." He stopped and licked his lips, knowing how much the admission of encroaching hopelessness must devastate his friend, but it would be a lie to continue his charade of confidence. He wanted to fix this. He hadn't given up, nor would he any time soon... but Roy could not deny that he could no longer see any light at the end of the tunnel.

"..._Maybe I should come over. You don't sound right_."

"Unless you want to sit and watch me snort a few lines, I wouldn't come if I were you," he quipped darkly. "Hawkeye didn't seem to like it when I did it in front of her. Apparently it's rude."

Now it was Maes' turn to sigh loudly into the phone. "_We're just worried about you. It's getting out of hand. It's affecting your judgment_."

"I haven't slept in days and I have _a presence in my head_ that I can't get rid of." Roy leaned on his desk and rested his head in one hand. "_That's_ affecting my judgment."

"_You'd be able to sleep better if you'd quit the damn blow_."

"No. I wouldn't. You think I haven't tried that? When I close my eyes, all I can hear is the Call. I feel like it's focused on me. _Me_, more than anyone else."

"_I'm sure you all feel that way... Under this kind of pressure, it's be hard not to feel singled out..._"

"No, Maes. You don't get it. It... it wants _me_ to do something. I can't stop thinking about it, but I don't understand. And it's getting stronger." His heart started beating hard again and he tried to steady himself with a breath. "Even now, it's so much stronger than it was this morning. Something is happening. It's happening _now_, Maes, and I-"

Even as he was talking, he felt the pull increase on him, cutting off his words.

"_Roy?_"

And Roy heard him, distantly, but something within him did not allow him to answer. Maes was utterly unimportant in that moment. All that mattered was the Call and the ocean of symbols calculating themselves in Roy's head.

There was an image in his mind. A place, an open, treeless expanse of wilderness. He could see it as clearly as if he were physically there, even though it was a place he had never been. He felt the balmy night air, and he heard screaming. It was waiting for them, for him, and he was beginning to understand. It turned its faceless white head toward him and grinned, spreading its ghostly arms wide.

Roy took the phone from his ear and laid the desk gently, amidst the coke and blood. His eyes wandered down to the symbols there again and, suddenly, he understood them.

Everything made sense.

Some far off part of him could still hear his best friend calling his name from the earpiece, but that gentle voice was lost among the other calls filling Roy's senses.

* * *

><p>He was here, but now he was gone. Everyone was gone. They were leaving. All of them. He could see them in his head, all of them lurching forward, leaving, leaving...<p>

Ed couldn't breathe. He tore around the small dorm, looking, looking, looking, finding nothing in the dimness. The room still smelled of the soap he'd used, the warm dampness from the shower stall making the air heavy. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe.

The pain still wasn't enough to keep his head clear, it was never enough.

He was alone. It was just him and the Call, alone in the room together.

And it was getting stronger.

* * *

><p><em>My pieces are falling into place.<em>

_ It won't be long, now._

* * *

><p>Riza's phone rang and she answered it quickly, yanking it from the hook.<p>

"Lieutenant Hawkeye, here," she greeted breathlessly.

For the past couple of weeks, Riza had gotten a sick jolt of worry in her stomach each and every time that the phone rang, because it was almost always bad news. Another alchemist dead. Another person missing. The child of alchemist parents suddenly abandoned...

The State was in shambles. Everything was falling apart. Even ever-powerful Bradley was frazzled and tired. And Mustang...

"_Hawkeye, It's Lieutenant Colonel Hughes_."

The tightness in Riza's chest did not dissipate at the sound of his voice. In fact, it wound even tighter because, truthfully, all of the bad news that Riza had been receiving lately typically came from Hughes' lips.

"Good evening, sir. How can I help you?"

"_Forgive me if this is an imposition_," he began quietly, "_But can you run over to Colonel Mustang's barrack and make sure that he's alright? I was just on the phone with him and he stopped talking, mid-sentence. I think he must have spaced out... He'd mentioned that he was due for a dose of his, ah, 'medicine'. I guess he went too long without it and lost focus. I stayed on the line for a good ten minutes just trying to get him to snap out of it, but he never answered. I just want to be sure he's ok. I know this morning was rough on him._"

"Oh, of course, sir."

"_Thank you. I really appreciate it. I would go myself, but I offered earlier and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want me there. Besides, I need to go check on Ed. He was still pretty out of it when I left his place a little while ago. He seemed like he wanted to be alone, but I don't think I should leave him by himself for too long._"

"I agree... Poor kid."

The two said their pleasantries, both of them trying hard not so sound as sick with worry as they were, and hung up.

Riza wasted no time in throwing on her boots and coat and rushing out the door. She had known before parting ways after the meeting that morning that Mustang was far more upset than he was letting on, but he had made it abundantly clear to everyone present that he wanted to be left alone and not pestered about it. So, of course, Riza had obeyed him.

But now, the way she saw it, she was under direct orders of Lieutenant Colonel Hughes to go and force her company upon him. He could yell at her all he liked, but at least now she had an excuse to be at his side.

The women's barracks where Riza was staying was only about a block away from the men's. She trotted down the sidewalk in the darkening evening, her head down and her hands in her pockets. There was a heavy feeling weighing on her, a deep sense of foreboding that she had been trying to shake off for the better part of the day. She felt as if there was a kind of pressure building within her, as if _something_ around her was coming to an apex. Change was on the wind, and Riza did not like it. It hurt her head and turned her stomach, and she had a sinking feeling that this sensation was directly related to the alchemists. The alchemists had felt this sick uneasiness first and most strongly, then Fuhrer Bradley had become ill, and now Hawkeye herself... More than that, she saw distraction and illness in the eyes of her comrades, even Hughes... and this went beyond simple fatigue and emotional exhaustion. Something was happening now, to all of them...

Or perhaps she was being paranoid. It had been a long couple of weeks. Still... she made a mental note to bring it up the next time she spoke to Hughes.

She came to her commander's door and knocked. He didn't answer, but she supposed that she shouldn't be surprised. She had dealt with enough afflicted alchemists in the past few days to know that once they were under that comatose daze that was claiming them all, it often took more than a few raps on a door to bring them back to reality.

She pounded on the door again for the sake of trying to be polite, then turned the knob and pushed it open.

The room beyond was badly lit, the only light sources coming from the tiny window on the opposite wall and the meager reading lamp on the desk in the corner. Riza could see bright splashes of red and white adorning the dark wood of the desk and, for a moment, wondered that it was. But then she saw him and her thoughts turned to more important wonderings.

"Colonel Mustang?"

He was facing away from her, leaning forward with one hand against the wall, his head bowed. His back heaved as he sucked air into his lungs, hyperventilating in the deceptive calm of the room. There was something clasped in one of his hands.

She went to his side and when he finally looked up at her, she was forcefully reminded of that day, two weeks ago, when he had turned from the symbol-marred wall of his office and had fixed her with those same strange, unfocused eyes. But there was something else in his gaze now that had not been there when this had all started.

"I was trying to... do something..."

His voice was hoarse and confused-sounding, and there was a distracted tightness to it that she could not ignore. He was afraid.

"What were you trying to do?"

"I don't... I don't remember."

As dazed as he was, she could see the primal fear of the unknown still stirred within him, and that fear was the only thing that was allowing him the tentative control he still had over himself. It was clear from his demeanor and from the size of his pupils that he hadn't hit in a while, and so now there was no other stimulus to keep his thoughts clear. She could see that he was actively fighting the Call now, giving everything he had to keep it from completely taking him over... and he was beginning to lose ground.

She put a hand on his arm, as she had before, and squeezed it hard. "It's alright, sir," she told him, wondering which of them she was trying to convince. She pulled him gently away from the wall. "Come on. That's it..."

She led him over to the desk and eased him into it. His hand was still clutching the object that she had noticed him holding earlier but only now, by the light of the lamp, was she able to see it clearly.

It was a paperweight. One of the generic, mass-produced ones that were often found in the temporary quarters of officers. It was made of a heavy lead crystal, with the green flag of Amestris and its rampant white dragon cast into the center of it.

"Here, let me take that..." she offered, reaching for it.

He looked as if he wasn't sure what she was talking about for a moment, but then he followed her gaze to the paperweight in his hand. He blinked at it and then, very calmly, said:

"Oh. Now I remember."

He brought up the paperweight and, with surprising strength and determination, brought it down hard upon his left hand, crushing it against the desk with a stomach-twisting _crack!_

Mustang gasped and doubled over, his hazy eyes flying open wide and brightening with both alertness and pain. He swore and clutched his hand to his chest. The paperweight, having served its purpose, tumbled to the floor.

Riza cried out and went down on her knees beside him. Mustang turned his over-bright eyes onto her, staring into her with a manic kind of intensity that made her want to hold him.

"Hey... W-worked like a charm..." he smirked, half laughing, half gasping in agony. "...Think it's broken?"

She swallowed. "Let me see."

He allowed her to take his hand and look at it. It was already starting to swell, blossoming into unhealthy shades of red and purple. His middle and ring fingers looked gnarled and crooked, like an old man's. They were definitely broken, and there was a deep cut on his index finger that looked like it had been there before the paperweight's blow and had been reopened. It was oozing blood freely.

"I need to find something to splint this with... it looks bad." She made to get to her feet, but Mustang grabbed her shoulder to keep her from getting up.

"Don't let me leave," he rasped, that faint touch of humor in him dissipating entirely and letting the fear take hold of him again. He was shaking, full to the brim with an anxious kind of energy.

"W-what?"

"Don't let me leave this room. If I leave... If I follow the Call..." His fingers dug into her arm. "I don't know what will happen. I can't fight it much longer, Lieutenant..."

"I'm not letting you go anywhere, believe me."

"You don't understand..."

"No. I don't." Hesitantly, she put a hand to the side of his face. He was cold. "But I don't have to. I won't let you leave, even if you want—"

"_No_. You don't _understand_," he insisted, gripping her shoulder so hard that it hurt. "You have to keep me here. No matter what, Lieutenant. Don't trust anything I say or do. Knock me out or tie me down if you have to, just _keep me here_."

"Sir, it's not going to come to that...!"

He shook his head, speaking over her, "Something is happening, Riza, and I think I..."

He trailed off, as if he just didn't know how to finish the sentence. He was still shaking, and every part of him seemed to scream with exhaustion. He was every bit a battle-weary soldier, still at war with some kind of enemy that could not be comprehended. With a sad, wrenching kind of gentleness, he took her hand in his own and closed his eyes tightly.

Riza reeled for a moment, somehow struck by how lost and helpless and _defeated_ her commander looked right now. He was beyond exhausted, beyond in pain, and so tired of fighting for control of his own mind that it was collapsing him from the inside. Never before, even during the assault on Ishbal, had he ever seemed so close to completely and irrevocably breaking down.

He swallowed hard, eyes still closed, and said, "Whatever happens... I'm sorry."

She didn't know what that meant, but it sent a cold shiver through her. Suddenly, Mustang's terror was infectious. This wasn't the drunken rambling of a depressed friend, or the ranting of a madman on the streets. This was _Roy Mustang_, and if he felt there was a reason to be afraid, then there most certainly was.

That pressure, that sense of something dark looming on the horizon returned to her. This was something beyond Mustang. Beyond all of the alchemists. Something had been building itself up, coming to a climax for the past two weeks. But now it was here, and there was no ignoring it. It pounded in her skull and made her wince. Beside her, Mustang exhaled softly and the tenseness in his shoulders relaxed a little bit. His eyes opened, but she could see the attentiveness he'd gained for himself by breaking his fingers was waning in the sudden upsurge of the Call. It was so intense that Riza was sure now that she was feeling it, too. It crawled at the back of her mind and made her head feel like it was about to burst.

"Hey!" she shouted at him, even though the sound of her own raised voice only added to the pain in her head. She took his jaw in her hand and forced him to face her. "Don't you fade out on me! Stay focused, sir."

He didn't hear her. Or see her. It was as if she wasn't there at all, or was so insignificant that he chose not to pay her any notice. His head was bowed forward, but his eyes were open and upraised behind the dark curtain of his hair, staring with that blank kind of intensity at the door to the room.

She took his shoulder again and gripped it hard, digging her fingers into him.

"_Sir_."

Still, he ignored her.

She dug her fingers in harder, her nails embedding into the meat of his arm through his shirt as she tried to rouse him with pain. He did not look at her, his eyes remained on the door, but he _did_ move this time... though after her initial twinge of dark relief, she realized that his action had absolutely nothing to do with her.

He straightened, then stood, carelessly pulling himself from her grasp. He lurched forward, stumbling toward the door that he had been staring at so intently. Riza stood from where she had been crouched beside his desk chair and hesitantly followed him as he took another unbalanced step.

"Colonel Mustang..." she called, her voice coming out in a breathless whisper. She reached out and took his arm, holding him back. "Come sit back down. Please."

He was still for a moment, then he turned his head very slightly, just enough to look at her out of the corner of his bloodshot eye.

What made Riza stop, what made her hand twitch in longing for the solidity of her gun, was not the absence of Mustang in those dark eyes. No, she was pretty much used to that by now and the _absence_ of his consciousness in his gaze was not surprising, especially now when he was so clearly being affected by his sickness. What made her stop and want to pull her gun was the _presence_ of _something else_.

"_You would dare to stop Me?_"

The words came from Mustang, but Riza—in her distress and in her own headache-induced haze—could not be sure that she had even seen his lips move, or if she'd heard the words at all.

"Those were my orders," she replied simply, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt. "And I apologize for this, sir, but..."

Quickly, Riza took Mustang's broken, bleeding hand in her own and wrapped her fingers around it, squeezing it in her grip as hard as she could until he felt the broken bones shift and grind against one another.

His knees buckled immediately and a ragged, pained groan forced itself from between his clenched teeth as he hit the floor. He wrenched his hand from her grasp and curled himself around it, panting.

"I'm sorry, sir..." she breathed, standing beside him and looking down at his heaving back, "I didn't know what else to do."

He bowed his head, his shoulders trembling, and said nothing.

She bit her lip and slowly lowered herself onto the floor beside him. She put an arm around his shoulder.

"Come on, sir..." she coaxed quietly, helping him to his feet. He leaned on her, as he always did in those very rare moments when he needed to, and let her lead him back to the desk chair.


	7. Connection

Maes didn't bother knocking. He knew the door wouldn't be locked, mostly because he had ordered Ed not to bolt it anymore. In case there was another emergency, the last thing Maes wanted to have to do was break another door down. His shoulder still hurt from doing it last time.

And so he hefted the bag of food under his arm—he had made the happy mistake of mentioning to his wife that Ed was looking a little underfed lately and she had promptly whipped up a pie and a chicken casserole to take over to him—and pushed open the door.

The door opened to reveal Ed, sitting on one of the two beds in the small room. His head was bowed and he was holding a glinting metal _something_ by the handle, the point of it digging into his chest.

The bag of food dropped from Maes' grasp and he bolted forward, crying out his name. He grabbed Ed's hand and yanked it away from his chest.

Ed looked up at him, his face both pained and startled. There were tears in his eyes, and desperation so intense that it Maes felt it hit him like a solid blow.

With mind still racing, Maes looked down at what Edward was holding. The metal flashed again in the dim light of the room, and Maes let out a tiny, relieved laugh.

He had thought it was a knife. For those first few blinding seconds upon opening the door, he had thought that he was witnessing Ed's suicide. And how could he not think that, after everything that had happened? After seeing Ed so completely overwhelmed with fear and grief that morning?

But, no. It wasn't a knife.

What Ed was holding in his hand was a screwdriver.

"W-what the hell are you doing?" he stammered to the kid, "I thought that you were—"

"Al's gone," the boy rasped, talking over him and silencing him with those two words. He gritted his teeth and the tears in his eyes spilled over. "I don't know where he is. He left. I think he gave in to the Call and _left_...!"

Maes' insides did a backflip and his eyes darted to the corner where Al had been sitting, ceaselessly, for nearly two weeks. Ed was right; the corner was empty save for the tight writing that filled every inch of the wall, the only ghostly reminder that Al had been there at all.

"It's alright, kiddo," Maes made himself say, sitting on the bed next to him, scooting in as close as he could get and putting an arm around his quaking shoulders. Edward was trembling and his skin was cool to the touch. That was really no surprise, since his shirt was off and his hair was still damp from his shower... but somehow Maes thought that his shivering wasn't due entirely to his body temperature, if at all. Maes could also tell that he was a little unfocused, at least more so than he'd been that morning, but it seemed as if the terror-fueled adrenaline pumping through him was helping to stave off the Call somewhat. "We'll find him," he added lamely.

"No..." Ed bowed his head, clutching the screwdriver in both of his hands as if it were some kind of religious object, like a string of holy beads to channel his prayers. "No, he's gone. We're all disappearing. All of us. I'm already starting to fade." A loud, heartbroken laugh barreled out of his throat. "I don't even feel like myself. Maybe I'm already gone. I think Mustang's been gone for a while. Taken over."

He was shaking hard, clearly battling against some crippling kind of half-mad terror that Maes couldn't even begin to understand. Maes didn't even know what to say in response to his soft, frightened words, and so instead he reached forward and gently took the screwdriver from Ed's hands. He wasn't certain now whether or not Ed was intending to hurt himself with it, but with the way that he was talking he really didn't want to risk it. "You'd better let me have this..."

"Wait..." Ed stopped him, visibly trying to calm himself and stop crying. He wiped his eyes. "I need that..."

"For what?" Maes asked, cautiously letting him take it back.

"I'm l-losing focus again," he sniffled. As Maes watched, he set the head of the screwdriver against one of the screws bolting his automail to his collarbone. He tried to turn the screw, but his shaking hands were too unsteady to make much headway. Finally, he offered the screwdriver to Maes. "Could you...?"

"What?" Maes blinked, not quite getting what Ed wanted him to do. But then his heart squeezed with sympathy as he realized. "Oh, sure..."

"Just tighten it a little," he rasped. "The pain is enough... better than the band, at least..."

"It won't damage your automail?" Maes asked uncomfortably. Now that he was looking at it, he could see that the area around Ed's collarbone was red and swollen. There was dried blood in the joints of the metal. Well, Maes _had_ asked him to find an alternative to cutting himself... but was this really better?

"It's fine. I've been doing it for days."

Not wanting to, but feeling that he didn't really have a choice, Maes tightened the screw. Ed stiffened and winced in pain—and it had to have been _significant_ pain... for fuck's sake, he was drilling into his _bones_—but he did not cry out.

"L-little more," was all he said, and Maes grudgingly complied by giving the screw another slight turn. This time, a soft cry did find its way out of Ed's throat, but he silenced it quickly by turning his head and biting into the back of his flesh hand.

The phone on the nightstand beside the bed rang. Ed made no move to answer it and just let himself collapse sideways onto the bed and curled around himself, giving his body a moment to adjust to his intensified pain. Is this how Ed had been living for the past few days? Maes suddenly hated himself for not keeping a closer watch on him. With the ongoing investigation, and the missing alchemists, and the climbing body count, and Roy's issues, and all of the meetings he'd been expected to attend, Maes had failed to keep an eye on the one person who really had no one else to depend on. In his moment of terror and crisis, not even his own brother had stayed by his side...

Mentally swearing to be more attentive to him from now on, he reached over and picked up the phone.

"Hullo?" he answered numbly, completely forgetting his military decorum.

"_Oh, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes_," Hawkeye said, "_I was hoping you'd be there already..._" Her voice was very clipped and low, as if she were terrified and trying very hard not to sound like it.

"What's wrong?" Maes asked her immediately, "Is Mustang okay?"

"_No. No, I don't think he is. He just purposefully broke his hand with a paperweight. He's losing it, Hughes. He said he wants me to tie him down so that he can't go anywhere. He's afraid that he's going to give in to the Call and I don't know how to help him_. _He's sick and not making sense._ _It's like he's a completely different person_. _I can't get him to stop shaking._"

Maes' guts went cold. "Do you think he accidentally overdosed...?"

"_No, I don't think he's had any cocaine at all. If anything, I think he's fighting through withdrawals. I think he just can't take any more of this, Hughes. Everyone around him is breaking down and expecting him to stay strong and..._" Her voice broke, a harsh and helpless sound that physically drove the breath from Maes' lungs. He had never seen her anywhere near close to tears before. She was a very strong, sometimes volatile person—so much like her commander—and for her to display any sort of weakness, no matter how deserving the display was, was downright terrifying. "_He just can't do it anymore_," she finished in a despairing whisper.

The façade that all of them—the soldiers, the alchemists, and, hell, even the Brass—had been clinging to since the beginning of this nightmare was wearing too thin to be of any use anymore. There would be no more delusions of optimism, or the increasingly desperate refrain of "Everything's fine". Because nothing was fine, and none of them could continue pretending. People were dead, more were going to die, and there was very little that anyone could do about it. The mental admission to himself that he and everyone around him were equally powerless to stop—or even understand—what was happening crushed down on Maes' shoulders with an impossible weight.

Suddenly, all Maes wanted to do was curl up with Ed on the cheap dormitory bed and go to sleep so that he wouldn't have to deal with any of this. If he slept, the world would go away... and when he woke up, all of this would just be a bad dream.

"...I'll be right over," he told her, running a hand through his hair. "Just stay with him until I get there."

"_Thank you, sir_."

They both hung up and Maes allowed himself a moment to just sit in silence, his head cradled in one hand. Finally he took a breath and straightened. He turned and put a gentle hand on Edward's side.

"Ed, I have to go see the Colonel for a few minutes, but I'll be back. Hawkeye says he isn't doing very well and I want to make sure he's okay."

Ed's automail hand shot out and grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip.

"No," he said, his golden eyes frighteningly wide and bright in the dim room. "Don't leave me here alone..."

Suddenly, it was all Maes could do to keep from following Ed's lead and weeping. His eyes welled and he swallowed hard in an attempt to lessen the grieved ache in his throat.

Never in his life had he ever felt so helpless, watching as his friends suffered. During the war, Maes had seen comrades die on a fairly regular basis. He had seen Mustang forced into actions he found morally damning each day, and watched him devolve into a mere shadow of himself, an emotionally-blocked husk. But even then, there had been a purpose. Maes had had orders, and he knew how to follow them. Now, there were no orders. There was no plan or purpose. Everything was in chaos, and even the great war leader, Fuhrer Bradley, had no fucking clue what was going on.

"Okay," he choked, but then he cleared his throat and made himself sound normal, as if nothing at all was wrong. "Get dressed, then. You're coming with me."

Within a few minutes, Ed was dressed and ready. Maes picked up the pie and casserole that lay dropped and forgotten in the hallway—neither was too badly damaged—and set them on the shelf in the dorm. Perhaps he could convince Ed to eat them later, but for now they both had more pressing matters on their minds.

They were quiet for the first part of the drive. Ed stared out the window at the darkened sky. He was still shivering, and now Maes was positive it wasn't because he was cold. The evening was pleasant and still... almost unnaturally so; there wasn't even the hint of a breeze in the trees.

Somehow unnerved by the contrast of the eerily calm weather and the silence inside the car with his own hectic thoughts, Maes finally broke the quiet.

"Ed... can I ask you something?"

The boy turned his tired, bloodshot eyes over to him. His brow was furrowed with pain and in the light of the streetlamps he looked positively unreal, as if he were an excruciatingly detailed wax model that had been just ever so slightly warped somehow. It was as if the consciousness looking back at Maes through those watery eyes was not completely Edward Elric.

"What?"

"Roy... Colonel Mustang mentioned to me the last time we spoke that he felt like the thing that's going on... this 'Call' is focusing on him. I told him that everyone was probably feeling that way, but he was adamant. I don't know if he's just being paranoid or... I don't know." Maes stopped and cleared his throat. "The way he was talking about it just worried me... I just wanted to know if you feel that way, too, or if it's just him."

Edward didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Yes..." he said at length.

"You feel like it's focused on you, too?"

"No... I feel like it's focused on _him_." He said it as though he had just realized it, with a hushed kind of wonder. "I mean, we're all under the wide umbrella of the Call... but... I think he is the center of it. I can feel it all around him. It made me uncomfortable, kind of on edge when I was near him, but I didn't realize what it was... More and more, I can feel _him_. I can feel _everyone_..."

"Okay..." Maes said, his expanse of worry somehow finding a whole new dimension to explore. "Okay, but what does that mean?"

"I just... I don't know." He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "We can just sense each other, I think. Kind of. Mustang stands out, though. I feel him the most strongly... and I don't know what Hawkeye was saying to you on the phone... but now that I'm paying attention to it, I can tell you that saying that Mustang 'isn't doing very well' is the understatement of the year. I can feel how close he is to... something."

"Is... is he really that bad...?"

Ed looked up at him again. "He's been bad for a long time, but today... even in just the past couple of hours it's been worse. For all of us... I can feel it building. It's getting harder and harder every minute... If it weren't for the drugs, I don't think Mustang'd be sane at all by this point." He licked his lips, and when he spoke again his voice was a dull whisper, on the verge of tears again. "Hate to admit it, but I'm terrified for the bastard, Hughes. I'm terrified for _us_. I think we're nearing the end of this... however it ends."

Maes absorbed that. "Thank you for answering my question," he said, managing to sound much steadier than he felt.

The barracks where all of the out-of town military officials were staying were really not that far from Ed's dorm. They probably could have walked there, if Ed weren't in so much pain and if Maes had honestly thought that they could afford the extra time it would take. Maes hadn't come to visit Roy in his room before now, as both of them had been very busy and they'd been having angry spats at each other rather frequently since his arrival, but he knew which room was his. Third floor, room 303.

There was a kind of pressure hanging overhead as he pushed open the door, a dark and overbearing sensation that Maes had been feeling off-and-on for the past few days. It was all around him now, hovering so thickly that air stuck in his throat as he tried to breathe it in. It gave him a headache and turned his stomach and made him, with some kind of primal warning, not want to enter the room.

Hawkeye looked up as the two of them entered. Maes met her frightened gaze for only a moment before his eyes fixed on Roy.

He looked bad. He looked really, really bad.

He was sitting in his desk chair, his arms wrapped around himself. His head was down and he was doubled over. His whole body shook with each breath and he was, very quietly, mumbling to himself. His deranged whispers filled the otherwise-silent room. It made Maes' skin crawl.

Roy's hair was in disarray, his clothes—one of the simple white button-ups he was prone to wearing and his military slacks—were rumpled and he was barefoot. The sleeves of his shirt were unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow, and Maes could see traces of what looked like blood smeared across it in several places. It looked like his left hand was bleeding and, from the odd way his fingers were bent, Maes felt safe to assume that it was the broken hand Hawkeye had mentioned on the phone.

Hawkeye stood from her seat on the corner of the bed, close to Roy, and came over to Maes. Her face betrayed a deep-set fear, and a certain tenseness at her temples and jaw-line made him wonder if she, too, were fighting a headache.

"He can barely even speak to me now," she whispered urgently. "It takes him forever just to form a coherent sentence... We have to take him to the hospital. I think it's gotten to that point. I know there isn't much they can do, but..." she trailed off, then swallowed hard. "At the very least, they can make him comfortable. They can sedate him so he doesn't have to suffer this anymore..."

As much as he didn't like the thought, Maes found himself agreeing with her. Roy's hand was broken... he was bleeding... and, if Ed was to believed—and Maes _did_ believe him completely—Mustang was probably even worse off than he looked. He had likely broken his hand to help himself focus, but if his appearance was any indicator, it didn't appear to be working very well. If the Call had grown so strong within him that even shattered bones did little to snap him out of it, then things had become dire for him indeed.

Ed, who had silently entered the room after Maes, slowly made his way over to Mustang. He stood over him for a moment, just looking down at his bent head with an utterly blank expression. Perhaps Ed's pain wasn't completely staving off the Call anymore, either...

But then the boy knelt down on one knee and looked up at Roy. After a moment, Roy raised his head a little to return his stare. Slowly, Ed's expression changed as they regarded one another. His face went from its distant blankness to a look of deep, horrified sadness. His bright amber eyes widened and the muscles in his jaw went tight.

"Mustang..." he said, very, very quietly. "I think we have to let it take us."

Roy shook his head slowly. "No..." he breathed, so quietly that Maes wasn't completely sure that he'd spoken.

"We have to," Ed grated out, and then the sob that he'd been holding back since the car ride finally expelled itself. "It took Al..."

"I know," Roy said. "I'm sorry."

"Al's gone?" Hawkeye asked, turning her despairing eyes on Maes. He nodded. He could see her wondering how Roy had known. Ed had said that the Alchemists could all feel each other now, as if they were all connected... there was no other way Roy could have known about Al if it weren't true, as impossible as it sounded. Maes felt a chill run down his spine.

"We have to go after him... please. It'll destroy us if we don't... We have to stop fighting it, Mustang. We have to let go."

Roy just stared at him. His eyes were dull and hazy, the red-rimmed eyes of a very old man.

"Please, Mustang..."

After another moment of still silence, Roy lifted his broken left hand and, though it shook as he did so, rested it on Ed's shoulder with an air of his old authority, as if he had just made a heavy decision.

As Maes watched, Roy's face softened and became that blank slate of expressionlessness that he had seen worn so often lately by all of the alchemists in his life. All sense of pain, terror, sadness, or anything at all lifted from him, and all that remained was a vessel that Maes almost didn't want to recognize as his friend. It was almost as if Roy wasn't even there anymore, as if it was just an animated body with no thought or feeling.

Maes didn't at first realize the significance of what had just happened before his eyes. He'd thought that Roy had been overwhelmed by the Call again and had just lost his focus, his mind wandering to whatever hellish place the poor alchemists' thoughts were pulled to when they lost control of themselves.

But then that feeling of pressure... that unsettling sensation of building tension that he'd been feeling and that—unbeknownst to him—Hawkeye and every other being within Amestris had been feeling to some extent as well... began to increase. The air felt heavy and it weighed in Maes' lungs as if they were full of water. He felt suddenly suffocated, and his headache exploded into new and impossibly intense peals of pain. Beside him, he noticed Hawkeye wince and put a hand to her brow.

Roy stood from his seat and Ed stood with him. He was no longer shaking. He was no longer tired or in torment. He was nothing at all. His eyes were empty, the eyes of a corpse.

It was then that Maes realized that Roy had taken Ed's words to heart. He had let go, and the Call had consumed him.

"Roy?" Maes called to him, his own horror increasing as his friend's dissipated.

But Roy did not respond.

"Oh, Ed..." Hawkeye rasped, "What did you do...?"

"What needs to be done," he replied softly, tears streaming down his cheeks freely now. Roy took a step toward the door, but Ed took his arm and held him back a little. "Wait..."

The boy clapped his hands together and touched his flesh hand to his automail wrist, and in doing so joined Mustang's broken hand to his automail with a makeshift chain, effectively cuffing them together.

"Whatever happens, I won't leave his side..." Ed swore, and Maes could see by how the brightness of his eyes was fading that even he wasn't all there anymore. He wouldn't be able to fight the Call much longer, either. "I promise."

"You can't leave," Maes told them.

"Neither of you are going anywhere except a hospital!" Hawkeye joined in, taking a step toward them.

"There's no choice in the matter, now. You have to let us go."

"Not on your life!" Maes shouted, moving over to block the door.

Roy raised his head, and in his face something far more unsettling than blankness was stirring. He parted his lips and, in a voice that sounded somehow like a thousand people speaking at once and echoed into itself in an infinite wave of sound and was—it froze Maes' insides to realize it—resolutely not Roy's, he said:

"_Do not interfere_."

"Like_ hell_!" Hawkeye managed, looking just as bewildered as Maes, but just as unwilling to back down. Even Ed looked startled by the sound of Roy's words. He took an automatic, half-step away from him and the chain binding their wrists together jangled sharply between them.

"...Who are you?" Ed dared to ask, his face registering some kind of frightened half-recognition as he looked up at his commander's possessor. "Why are you doing this?"

Roy's mouth parted into a very wide, almost manic smile. He turned to look down at Edward fondly. He reached over with his one un-bloodied band and touched Edward's automail arm, caressing it with the backs of his fingers.

"_You, above all people_," he said, "_already know who I am_."

Ed flinched away from him again and Roy's hand moved up to place itself, almost lovingly, on the top of Ed's head, as if he were a parent comforting his child. The fear and uncertainty in Ed's eyes remained just a moment longer, then—as it had with Roy just moments ago—the light in them faded and his expression became as blank as a dead man's.

"._..and you don't need to know why_."

The Roy-thing-that-was-not-Roy turned back to Maes and Hawkeye and raised a hand toward them. That building pressure in his head became crushing, and it was all Maes could do to keep from screaming as the pain in his skull reached levels he'd never thought possible. His knees hit the carpet hard and he bent double, clutching the sides of his head. He felt Hawkeye collapse beside him, and he swore that he could hear screaming from the streets outside, as if the entire city were crying out in sudden pain.

Maes raised his streaming eyes to his friend and saw that wide, horrific grin spreading across his face.

It was the last thing he would see for several hours, that haunting, gleaming smile.

And then everything went dark.


	8. Deus Ex Machina

((Last chapter. Thank you for reading!))

* * *

><p>The night was tepid and stagnant. The air was still, the temperature of cooling blood. No birds chirped in the stock-still trees. No animals moved in the underbrush. Nothing at all stirred, except for the alchemists.<p>

There were hundreds of them, all of them silently moving forward though the darkness. They needed no lights to see their way in the black, nor did they need to call to one another to find where they were. They were all completely silent, and they moved as one. They had no identity separate from one another and they moved forward, ever forward, as single-mindedly as a swarm of insects.

They were gathering here, in a place that they had all seen in their minds this night. They were coming together from all corners of Amestris, all of them driven by the insatiable impulse that no one could explain. The alchemists from all over the country who had gone missing were found here, some of them having walked dozens of miles after their cars ran out of gas.

Many alchemists were here already, and many more were coming. As they neared the site of their otherworldly meeting, it became crowded and bodies were packed against each other, all of them trying to get to the same place. Some of the older and weaker members of the swarm collapsed as they journeyed, but the alchemists who came after them did not alter their paths to go around them, and many were trampled to death by their peers. There was no such thing as pity here, or morals. There was only the Call, and the weak—whether of body or mind—were disposable.

From the sky, a single, silent owl gliding far overhead could see them down below, and only she witnessed the intricate shapes that the converging humans created. The gentle owl, though, could not comprehend what she was looking at, nor did she care.

It was a transmutation circle, and it became more intricate as each alchemist arrived. Each alchemist—each piece of the hive-like whole—knew his or her place. Arms and legs entwined, creating a mindless human chain, each alchemist's position drilled into the core of them, and held without cease. Newcomers to the circle crawled over one another to find their place, and some of those below them were suffocated or crushed in the tangle of bodies, yet still they steadfastly held their piece of the circle even in death, as their corpses began to cool.

The concentration of alchemists thinned toward the center of the array. Here, most of them were Alchemists of the State, more powerful than their civilian bretheren, and so destined to find their place in the middle of it all where their talents would be more focused.

And then at the very Center, there were only two. A man and a boy, one raven-haired and one blond, the two of them chained together.

The man alone stood. His colleagues all knelt around him, intertwining with one another. Even the boy who was chained to him was on his knees, half-heartedly yanking on the chain that bound them together. He was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be further off, entangled with the other State Alchemists, but with the limited brain function that he was allowed at the moment, he did not have enough presence of mind to transmute the chain back into his automail and release himself.

The man did not notice his pulling. He simply stared upward at the sky, motionless as he waited to begin. For hours he stood like this as his comrades amassed around him. Not moving, scarcely breathing. For hours and hours. Waiting.

And then, at precisely the right moment, just as the morning sun began to hue the sky with shades of red and gold, he spread his arms as if to welcome the coming day. The blond boy began to pull with renewed vigor as if he knew something was about to happen, but the man did not budge. Even as the pulling became violent, making the metal cuff slice into his wrist, even when the force of the boy's strength wrenched at the tendons in his shoulder and pulled the bone from the socket with a soft grinding sound that neither of them were sane enough to hear... even then, he stood as solidly as a statue and closed his eyes.

Light unlike any other flashed into the pre-morning darkness, driving it back to retreat in the shadows behind trees and buildings in the distant city. The sky was white for a moment, so vibrant that any inhabitant of Central who might have happened to be looking at it would have had to cry out and shield their eyes. But none of them were looking. None but the homunculi were awake to see it, and they were too distracted by the agony in their skulls to pay it any mind. Bradley saw it briefly from the corner of his Ultimate Eye, for just a split second as he huddled on the floor of his office, clutching his head and screaming.

The earth shook violently. Rocks crumbled and trees were uprooted. Streets cracked and the white of the blinded morning sky became a cold grey with the dust that was kicked up in the wake of the trembling ground.

But then, slowly, that pressure that everyone had felt pressing upon their souls began to dissipate. A soft, cool breeze gathered the courage to blow as the shaking ceased, billowing the grey dust it up into the sky as the ungodly light faded.

The raven-haired man's arms dropped back down to his sides. He swayed, stumbled, and put a hand to his brow with a small, confused moan.

Then he fell.

* * *

><p>Ed opened his eyes.<p>

For a moment he just stared, blinking at the morning light shining down upon him, not knowing where... or _who_... he was for a moment. He tasted blood and his automail was hot from being in the direct sunlight for so long.

Around him there were moans. Screams. Weeping. Somewhere to his right an elderly man cried out for his mother.

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, but a sudden surge of vertigo knocked him over a little and he sat back dazedly. His lower back rested against something behind him and he turned his heavy, pounding head to look.

And then, some very distant, very tired part of him remembered.

He struggled to his feet and the world rocked around him. He staggered forward, toward the distant city, joining the throng of people heading that direction, many of them clinging to one another and weeping as they walked.

The body attached to his automail wrist dragged behind him without protest, silent and still.

* * *

><p>The amount of wounded that they found was unbelievable.<p>

Alchemists were lurching from every direction, some of them walking, others crawling. Others still were completely motionless, and often it was impossible to tell from a distance whether or not they were even alive. It had been two hours since a search had been called to find the missing alchemists—for they were _all_ missing now, every last one of them that hadn't been hospitalized or forcibly kept at home by their families—and already seventeen bodies and fifty-seven wounded had been found. It was like the scene of a natural disaster, or of some kind of gruesome war act, as if some kind of deadly bomb had been dropped. The field medics were overwhelmed.

Private Williams was looking for his commander, Major Armstrong. As of yet, though, his massive frame had not been spotted by anyone in his search party. But Williams would not stop. He would search tirelessly until he and every other unaccounted-for alchemist was safe.

Williams looked up to see someone coming toward him and his team, topping a hill in the distance. The figure was small, but his shoulders were broad and strong-looking. He was silhouetted into obscurity, though the gold of his hair and the silver of his automail caught the light behind him enough to let all who looked upon him know who he was.

He stumbled forward another pace and fell in his exhaustion, tumbling down the hill, dragging with him another person who Williams had not been able to see before. The private cried out to his peers and superiors and they all sprinted forward, the trained medic in their team pulling his kit from his rucksack as he ran.

Williams reached them first, and he hit his knees beside the boy before he even registered who the man was that he was dragging behind him. Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist—a boy who Williams knew only by reputation and had never seen face-to-face aside from a few distant glimpses in the office—raised his eyes to meet his. Tear tracks cut through the dirt on his face, the griminess making his eyes so intense that he almost didn't look human.

"...Have you seen Alphonse?" he asked, his young voice made old and hoarse by fatigue.

"Move aside, Private!"

The medic pushed past Williams hurriedly, not to get at the kid who seemed mostly uninjured, but to the body beside him.

Colonel Roy Mustang lay on his back, his eyes eerily open and rolled back into his head. His body was stiff, his back slightly arched off of the filthy ground, and his hands—one of which was clearly badly broken—were clenched and twitching. His whole body was shaking in a tight, yet uncontrollable way, every muscle spasming. Trails of dried blood were smeared under his nose and down from the corner of his mouth. The medic was on him in an instant, rolling him over onto his side and holding him down against what Williams only sluggishly realized was a violent seizure. It passed within a few moments and Mustang fell still and limp back against the ground, his exhausted, wrought body dragging in a series of deep, desperate breaths.

The medic put two fingers to the side of Mustang's neck, checking his pulse.

"This isn't good," the medic stated unnecessarily. He'd just had a seizure; how could it possibly be anything _but_ bad? "His heart is racing... And it looks as if his shoulder has been dislocated. His hand might be broken as well... Sir? Colonel Mustang, can you hear me?"

Mustang didn't say anything, or even move for a very long time. But then his red, sunken eyes opened and moved sluggishly over to meet the medic's. While Williams was sure this was a good sign, he could tell by the slowness of the man's movements and the obvious bleariness of his mind that it wasn't a _great_ sign. Like most of the others who had been found alive, Mustang was in a dangerous state of shock and the fact that he was also experiencing epileptic fits only made matters worse.

"Get the stretcher," the medic ordered one of the other men in the company, "And try to get his men on the radio; I think they're searching just north of here."

"Sir!" And the soldier left.

The medic turned his attentions to Fullmetal. The boy looked back at him as he reached over and checked his pulse as well.

"...Have _you_ seen my brother?" he asked.

The medic's—Captain Randall was his name—stoic professionalism seemed to waver a little, but he fought it pack into place.

"No," he said, "I haven't."

Fullmetal nodded, but then his own stoicism crumbled and he gritted his teeth, his silent tears streaming anew.

That seemed to shake Randall even further. He cleared his throat and his voice softened, as if he were speaking to a child much younger than Fullmetal. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

The boy shook his head.

"Good." He turned his head and looked back at Mustang. The Colonel was still watching him with his hazy, confused-looking eyes. He didn't say anything, or really even do anything. He just stared. Williams' skin crawled as their eyes met and he had to look away. Eye-contact broken, Mustang's frail hold on consciousness seemed to waver a little. His eyelids fluttered and he gave a small, wet cough.

Beside him, Randall stiffened and Williams let out a strangled curse.

Vivid droplets of red stood out starkly against the colorlessness of Mustang's lips. Oh god, he was bleeding, and as they watched a thick stream of blood began to spill from the corner of his mouth and down across his cheek.

Randall quickly took Mustang's jaw in his hand, trying to pry it open.

"Don't fight me, sir!" he pleaded when the wounded man resisted. More blood poured from his mouth, dyeing his lips and staining the collar of his dirty white shirt. He choked on it, and still more blood came forth.

Randall finally got his mouth open and turned his patient's head to the side, allowing the blood to dribble out of his mouth and into the dirt. "Damn it, he's bitten through his tongue..."

He lifted the short length of chain connecting the boy and man between his two fingers. "Can you take this off?" he asked Fullmetal, trying to sound gentle in the face of his urgency. "Mustang is hurt. We need to take care of him, okay? Can you do that?"

"We... we have to stay together... I promised Hughes. And H-hawkeye." He swayed a little where he sat, clearly not in his right mind. But after what he'd been through—some kind of terrifying event that no one yet understood—who wouldn't be a little cracked? Williams had only been on the outskirt of it, and the terror in his breast was barely containable. He didn't even want to imagine what it must be like for the alchemists.

"Okay, but we need to take him to the medic tent. He's going to bleed to death if we don't get him sedated and stitched up. We'll take good care of him, but it'll be hard for us to help him if you're in the way. Please, Fullmetal."

He shook his head again, his hair falling in front of his eyes. "No... I promised..."

Captain Randall tried again and again to gain Fullmetal's cooperation, but he still would not release his hold on the Colonel. By the time the stretcher came to transport the semi-comatose man to the medic tent, Randall was losing patience. He ordered that one of the men run back and get a bone saw from the tents and, in spite of Fullmetal's increasingly hysterical protests, he sawed through the chain.

The kid just about lost it when they took Mustang from him. He fought and screamed, suddenly filled with a frantic, adrenaline-fueled kind of energy, but it didn't last long. Williams held onto him until he could fight no more. Like the rest of the alchemists, he was exhausted to the point of collapse and he soon fell prey to his body's need for rest. He fell limp in Williams' arms, half-swooning, and did not rise to fight again.

He was taken to one of the other medical tents to be checked out, and Williams went back out into the field, still searching for his commander.

* * *

><p>The impromptu base camp was flooded with the wounded. Bandaged or bleeding alchemists milled around aimlessly, like the walking undead, each of them either still suffering from shock or simply trying to absorb what had happened.<p>

But no one really knew what happened. As of yet, no one had been able to find a clear answer. The last thing Maes remembered was Roy and the horrifying presence that pulsed in him. Then there had been pain, such vivid, indescribable pain followed by a period of blackness in which he felt nothing at all.

The next thing he remembered was waking up on the floor of the barrack room with Hawkeye shaking him and calling his name, and then that moment of terror when he realized that it was morning—hours and hours had gone by without his notice—and Ed and Roy were both gone.

"They said he was over here somewhere..." Hawkeye said to Maes tightly, her sharp-shooter eyes desperately darting around in search of her commander. "There!"

Maes turned to where she was pointing and felt his legs try to give out from under him with relief. The two of them ran toward a medical tent where several patients had been made to sit outside on crates. The number of wounded had skyrocketed, and there was not enough bed space for those who were not severely injured.

Maes supposed he should feel Roy lucky to be sitting outside, then.

Roy's eyes were closed and deeply shadowed. His cheeks looked sunken and the dip at his temples seemed deeper somehow, as if his skin was clinging to his bones. His arm was in a sling, supporting the shoulder that the doctors had needed to pop back into its socket—Maes hadn't been told how it was wrenched from the socket to begin with, nor did he think to ask—and his broken hand was safely within a cast. The medics had mentioned over the radio that he'd been having seizures and had nearly bitten his tongue off, but after being medicated and given fluids he was improving. Still, the sight of him was enough to make Maes sick to his stomach.

Roy did not open his eyes as they approached him, but considering that he had been recently sedated, that wasn't entirely surprising. He was reclining on a wooden box, leaning back against a stack of empty medical crates. He was asleep, and looked as if he could sleep forever. His lips were parted, stained with the traces of dried blood. But he was alive. Unlike so many of his comrades, he had been found _alive_, and just about anything beyond that joyful fact was currently moot in Maes' eyes.

"Roy?" Maes knelt down beside him, almost feeling bad about waking him, but just needing to know what he was okay. At the sound of his name, Roy looked up, but it seemed as if it took him a moment to register where he was. He tried to speak, but the pain must have reminded him of his injuries and he stopped. He put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes tightly, wincing.

"Don't try to talk, sir..." Hawkeye told him, kneeling beside Maes.

Roy looked at her groggily, then he raised his uninjured arm and mimed holding something between his thumb and first two fingers. He moved his hand slowly through the air, as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra.

"Oh, of course," she said quickly, understanding what he wanted before Maes did. She quickly flagged down a passing soldier and managed to beg a pen and a small pad of paper off of him.

She handed them to Roy and he put the pen to the first sheet of paper on the pad. But then he stopped, as if he had no idea how to word what he wanted to say. He sat for a moment, utterly still and silent, staring at the blank page, a dark chaos stirring beyond his soulful eyes as he searched for the words he could not say aloud.

Finally the pen moved and he turned the pad over so that Hawkeye and Maes could both see it.

It read, very succinctly:

_?_

It was just a question mark and yet, somehow, Maes understood everything that Roy was making it stand for. What happened? Where are we? Are you okay? Is Ed okay? Am _I_ okay? What the hell is going on? Tell me _everything_.

And, to the best of their abilities, they did.

But they didn't _know_ what had happened.

No one knew what was going on, other than to say that every alchemist in Amestris had suddenly gone mad, compelled into self-injury by some kind of psychic force. There had been some manner of grand-scale transmutation, but no one could tell what effect it had had. Nothing seemed to have changed, though that hanging pressure in the air was gone, and in its absence Maes felt positively buoyant. Other than that, though, the purpose of the transmutation was a mystery.

"And then you and Ed were found... do you even remember that?"

Ponderously, he shook his head.

Maes and Hawkeye looked at each other, neither of them sure of how much detail they should go into about the state the two alchemists had been found in.

"Well, neither of you were exactly yourselves..." Maes started, rubbing the back of his neck.

Roy listened to them describe his frightening behavior back at his barrack, but they could tell by the furrow in his brow that he did not remember any of it. He jotted something down on the pad again, looking a little more awake, but then he stopped. His dark eyes sharpened and he pointed urgently over Maes' shoulder. Both he and Hawkeye turned to look.

In the distance, they could see Ed wandering through the throng of rushing doctors and shell-shocked alchemists. He was holding himself, looking around as if just desperate to find a familiar face in the crowd. Maes jumped up and went over to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Ed jumped in surprise and looked up at him, and the expression of heart-wrenching relief that came to his face when he recognized Maes was enough to make the man grab him hard and wrap his arms around him. Ed embraced him in return, holding onto him so hard that the indentions of his automail fingers would probably leave bruises on Maes' back.

"C-can't find Al..." he whispered against him, sounding too heartbroken to even weep. "I can't find him anywhere..."

"He'll turn up, Ed," Maes assured him, trying to sound like he meant it. He cupped the back of the kid's head, swearing silently that once this was all settled, he was going to force Edward—and Al... if and when they found him—to spend a few days with him and Gracia, in a warm, safe home where they would be loved and protected. After all that they had already been through in their young lives, they didn't need this. It was too much. And Maes really had tried _so hard_ to keep him safe, to dull the terror of what was happening to him and all of the other alchemists... but none of it had been worth anything.

Maes closed his eyes tightly, forcing back the sting of tired, heartsick tears that had been threatening to loose themselves over the past few days. Now was not the time to physically give in to his grief. There was never time.

Almost grudgingly, he let go of Ed and led him back to Hawkeye and Roy. Roy sat up woozily and motioned for his young subordinate to sit next to him and Ed complied, shakily collapsing back onto the wooden box.

Roy flipped over to a clean sheet on the pad and scrawled a few words. Maes caught a glimpse of the words _Are you okay?_ as he showed the pad to Fullmetal.

Ed read it. "No. Are you?"

Roy smirked at him sadly and shook his head. No, of course they weren't okay. None of them were, nor could they be expected to be any time soon.

More alchemists were found as the day progressed, both dead and alive. Armstrong was found toward late afternoon, wandering aimlessly with the body of another alchemist—a young man—cradled in his arms. He was crying and had been inconsolable for hours, but he was mostly unhurt. The same could not be said for Major Gates. She was also found later in the afternoon, broken and bleeding as if she had been trampled. She was alive, but barely.

It was nearly evening when they found Al, just when Roy's sedation had worn off enough for him to travel. Maes was eager to get him back into the city. He wasn't so badly injured that he needed a hospital, but a warm bed in a quiet room would probably do him loads of good... him and Ed both.

But as they were getting ready to go, Ed suddenly gave a sharp, joyous cry.

"Brother!"

Alphonse screamed for his sibling from across the camp and Edward's tired, devastated face lit up like a light.

They ran toward each other, Ed stumbling in his exhaustion and nearly collapsing, but Al caught him up in his big arms and enfolded him into a terribly sweet and painfully sad embrace.

Roy was already loaded into the car and was nearly asleep again, his head resting in Hawkeye's lap in the back seat, but he opened his eyes to the brothers' tearful reunion and watched them hold one another, weeping, each teasingly scolding the other for making them worry.

In the wake of the darkness enshrouding the past couple of weeks, Maes' heart was lightened to see the boys together again, and he felt a quiet smile play on his lips. When he looked back at Roy, though, he saw no such buoyancy on his face. His expression was tensed with profound gravity.

_It isn't over_, that face said.

* * *

><p><em>It had been one hundred and fifty-three years, four months, one week, three days, and eight hours since the last Release. The World was overdue for another. And so I initiated one.<em>

_ Mustang—My Center piece, my Host—had been right about that: it had happened before. And it will happen again. _

_ Again, and again, and again._

_ That's what they're here for, My alchemists, though they'll never really know it. They are made to live by the rules of Equivalent Exchange, and must therefore equalize the World around them when it needs them to. _

_ Energy is never lost. It is just reverted, spread out, repurposed... sometimes it gathers and it builds and builds upon itself until it is a cosmic pressure that only earthquakes and torrential storms can help dissipate._

_ But sometimes, every couple of centuries, the energy has been allowed to build too much and the only way to Release it is to expel it so violently that everything around it—the land, the wildlife, even those endlessly fascinating creatures who rule over it all—is completely pulverized. Now, I can't have that, can I?_

_ And so, as I have done before and shall do again, I used My alchemists to disperse what had been collected, to act as a living conduit to divert the energy back outward and ease the cosmic pressure._

_ Alchemists are indispensable to the fate of their entire World. This is why they can never truly know of the part they play. Soon, as the days pass around them, they will forget. One day, as one of the injured alchemists lays in her hospital bed, she will suddenly ask, "Why am I here? How did I get injured?" and no one will answer her, because no one will know. _

_Two alchemists meeting on the street will faintly remember each other, will smile vaguely and wave, but they will not remember how they had held each other and wept in the wake of the transmutation, or recall that they had supported each other, both of them limping and injured, toward the medical tents. _

_Edward, my golden boy, will sometimes remember the Release in his dreams. He will awake screaming, but the memory of the nightmare will leave him even before he stops to draw a breath in the darkness._

_Even Mustang, My perceptive and intuitive soldier, will look at the books and newspaper articles he had borrowed from the Central Library and wonder why he had even checked out such pointless drivel. Only he will have any lasting damage from this event. It is hard on the human body to host Me for any length of time and though he served his purpose well, he will suffer rare bouts of epilepsy into his old age. He and those around him will be convinced that he has always suffered thus, since his youth, and will never connect the occasional sickness to that hellish fortnight that none of them will ever remember._

_ No, not even those most intimately involved will remember. And the next time I need Release, there shall be no warning. The few news articles written during the interim of the Call will be filed away and forgotten with everything else. Memory is an interesting thing. It is easily manipulated and completely unreliable, even when it is written down for the ages to recall._

_By My design, of course. _

_Only I will forever know the Truth, for that is what I am. And I will keep My secret to Myself, at least until I need to make use of My toys again..._

_ ...And again, and again, and again..._


End file.
